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FATE 


Ada  Negri 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


7r 


V 


Digitized  by  tine  Internet  Arcliive 

in  2007  witli  funding  from 

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FATE 


FATE 

ADA    NEGRI 

jfuthortxed  Translation  from  the  Italian  by 

A.  M.  VON    BLOMBERG 


BOSTON 

COPELAND    AND    DAY 

1898 


COPYRIGHT,     1898,     BY    COPELAND    AND    DAY 


PQ 

CONTENTS. 

ADA   NEGRI  PAGE     xi 

FATE  I 

NAMELESS  2 

DISTURB    ME    NOT  3 

THE    WAVES    FLOW    ON  5 

THE    STREET    URCHIN  6 

JEALOUS    OF    THEE  7 

A    SHORT   STORY  9 

AUTOPSY  lO 

SNOW  12 

MIST  13 

NIGHT  14 

AS    LONG    AS    1    LIVE    AND    BEYOND  1 5 

IN    THE    BREACH  1 7 

GOOD-MORROW,   MISERY  I  9 

THE    OLD    MAN  21 

THE    SONG    OF    THE    PICKAXE  23 

THE    DEFEATED  25 

THE    HAND    IN    THE    WHEELWORK  28 

LOUD    GROANS    THE    MACHINE  29 

ONE    OF    THE    PEOPLE  30 

FLOWER    OF    THE    PEOPLE  32 

THE    PAGAN    KISS  34 

THE    ARABIAN    HORSE  35 

THEE    ALONE  36 

SINITE    PARVULOS  37 

NENIA    MATERNA  39 

IN    THE    HURRICANE  41 
V 


oQr, 


LIGHT  PAGE   41 

TAKE    ME    AWAY  42 

SO    I    SEE    IT   ONCE    MORE  43 

STRANA  44 

WHY  47 

CHALLENGE  48 

SALVETE  49 

HAVE    MERCY  !  5I 

GO  S3 

NO  54 

APRIL    SONG  56 

THE    WORKING    MOTHER  56 

IT    CANNOT    BE  59 

PHANTOMS  60 

NIGHT    JOURNEY  61 

A    SOUL  63 

DROUGHT  66 

THOU   WOULDEST    KNOW  67 

COME   TO    THE    FIELDS  68 

DEEP    IN    THE    DUSKY  WOODS  70 

THE    CASCADE  7I 

MISTICA  7a 

HAST    THOU    BEEN    WORKING?  72 

TO    MARIE    BASHKIRTSEFF  74 

ON    HIGH  78 

ALONE  80 

SPES  82 

THE    WIDOW  82 

THE    FADED    ROSE  83 

vi 


DEFORMED  PAGE    85 

VOICE    OF    THE    DARKNESS  86 

THE    MARK    ON    THY    BROW  88 

PROPHECY  90 

MAKE    ROOM  93 


^Tis  pain  that  teaches   thoughts  their  highest 
flights 


ADA   NEGRP 


SHE  lives  at  Motta-Visconti.  So  much  we 
know  because  all  her  poems  bear  this  indi- 
cation in  the  left-hand  lower  corner.  But  who 
is  Ada  Negri  ?  Why  does  she  write  only  for 
the  Illustrazione  Popolare  ?  Why  does  she  not 
step  out  into  plain  daylight,  and  why  does  no  one 
help  her  to  do  so  ? 

At  times,  when  striving  passionately  to  be 
Loosed  from  these  hateful  bonds,  I  curse  and  cry  ; 
The  vain  world  laughs,  and  listens  not  to  me. 

Why  does  no  one  listen  to  her  ? 
These    were   the   questions   asked   only   a  few 
months  ago  by  the  subscribers  to  the  Corriere  delta 

1  It  is  the  general  custom  to  introduce  lecturers 
and  poets  at  their  first  public  appearance.  To  in- 
troduce Ada  Negri,  we  recur  to  a  most  simple 
means  which  to  us  seems  also  the  best,  that  is,  to 
reproduce  the  article  another  distinguished  and 
highly  valued  authoress  dedicated  to  her  in  the 
Corriere  delta  Sera  last  December. 


Ada  Negri  Sera  and  the  Illustrazione  Popolare  ;  even  those 
who  neither  understand  nor  care  for  poetry  felt 
themselves  deeply  moved  by  Ada  Negri's  verse. 

Strange,  indeed,  that,  thus  known  and  admired 
privately,  she  should  not  find  a  way  out  of  the 
thickets  lining  her  path,  to  step  forth  openly  upon 
the  highroad. 

Still  it  may  have  been  best  for  her  so  :  her 
struggle  with  obstacles  which  she  did  not  know 
as  such,  her  never  appeased  thirst  for  glory,  surely 
helped  to  kindle  the  flame  that  now  warms  all 
her  poetry,  giving  it  the  stamp  of  such  true  feel- 
ing, so  new  and  so  entirely  her  own. 

Her  readers,  little  by  little,  have  come  to  under- 
stand that  the  pain  in  her  verses  is  real  pain,  that 
this  young  creature  must  have  suffered  as  much 
as  if  she  had  already  lived  a  long  life ;  and  they 
will  finally  come  to  the  conviction  that  she, 
conscious  as  she  is  of  her  genius,  and  made  strong 
by  sad  experience,  might  emerge  at  any  moment 
into  the  sunshine  of  that  glory  she  dreams  of 
with  such  ardour. 

The  "austere  figure"  that  appears  at  her 
bedside  one  night  and  that  calls  itself  Misfortune 
says,  after  having  crushed  her  with  the  prophecy 
of  what  she  is  destined  to  suffer  : 

He  who  creates  in  suffering's  night 
Alone  sees  glory's  day. 
'T  is  pain  that  teaches  thoughts  their  highest  flight. 

And  she  who  had  repelled  her  answers :  ♦*  Stay." 
xii 


Misfortune  !  how  well  we  feel  that  it  was  the   Ada  Negri 
companion  of  Ada   Negri's   youth !  maybe   that 
from  her  childhood  she  knew 

—  the  sleepless  nights  of  useless  prayer, 
Full  of  the  morrow's  dread, 

maybe  she  also  knew  **  those  long  days  without 
bread"  — 

Amid  the  dark,  here  in  my  heart  did  reign 
A  mad,  unbridled  craving  for  the  sun. 

At  the  age  of  eighteen  she  bids  her  mother 
farewell,  leaving  Lodi  to  take  a  position  as  a 
teacher  at  Motta-Visconti,  a  squalid,  dismal  vil- 
lage, not  reached  even  yet  by  the  wheels  of  a 
tram  ;  there  it  lies,  as  if  forgotten,  on  the  ridge 
above  the  Ticino  where  the  great  woods  extend, 
well  known  to  the  huntsmen  of  Milan  ;  here  it 
is  that  Ada  Negri  goes  to  listen  to  the  voices  of 
the  rising  wind,  which. 

Proudly  its  pinions  shaking,  twists  and  turns 
And  rages  furiously. 

Ada  Negri,  when  your  verses  shall  appear  col- 
lected in  a  volume,  much  will  be  said  and  in- 
vented concerning  your  person  and  your  life  ! 
Let  me  tell  first  a  little  of  the  melancholy  truth. 
This  melancholy  truth  is  an  honour  to  you  ;  and 
some  day  you  will  think  of  your  poverty  with 
tenderness  and  gratitude,  for  it  is  largely  to 
poverty  that  you  owe  what  you  are. 
xiii 


Ada  Negri  Let  us  then  cross  the  wide,  muddy  courtyard 
on  which  the  stables  open  and  where  the  geese 
are  splashing,  to  go  and  knock  at  your  crazy 
door,  climbing  the  two  steep  flights  of  worn  brick 
steps.  We  come  to  greet  you  in  your  dim  room, 
where  the  window-panes  are  not  glass  but  paper, 
where  the  box  that  contains  your  books  and  that 
serves  you  as  a  divan  is  the  most  elegant  piece  of 
furniture.  Our  hearts  contract  the  first  moment, 
but  then  they  expand,  they  swell  with  emotion 
and  admiration. 

It  was  in  a  literary  magazine,  if  I  am  not  mis- 
taken, that  the  Working  Mother  was  published, 
the  description  of  that  great  mill  where,  without 
respite,  a  poor,  weary  woman  is  working,  whose 
careworn  brow  seems  illumined  by  a  noble  pride, 
for  she  is  working  for  her  son  who  is  to  study  : 

—  Her  joy,    * 
Her  one  ambition,  her  one  son,  behind 
Whose  brow  she  has  divined 
The  lofty  flight  of  genius. 

Who  has  not  thought,  on  reading  this  passage, 
that  perhaps  it  should  be  a  daughter  ? 

The  poor  woman,  weary  and  ill,  who  has 
worked  all  her  life,  has  now  taken  refuge  with 
her  daughter,  and  awaits,  timorous  and  thought- 
ful, the  bright  future  when  the  dark  head  will  be 
crowned  "with  gold  and  laurel  wreaths." 

Is  it  coming,  that  great  day  ?  Already  letters, 
magazines,  and  books  arrive  from  all  parts  of  Italy, 
xiv 


and    her    daughter's    name    is    everywhere ;    the   Ada  Negri 
streets  which  she  walks  ring  with  it,  and  she  is 
thrilled  with  pride  and  reverence. 

Yes,  your  daughter's  name  is  known,  but  no 
one  knows  who  she  is,  and  she  knows  no  one, 
and  will,  for  some  time  yet,  have  to  go  in  her 
wooden  shoes  to  the  school  where  seventy  to 
eighty  dirty  urchins  shout  to  bid  her  good-morn- 
ing and  try  her  patience,  reciting  the  alphabet  in 
unison. 

Her  mother  sees  her  coming  home  with  pale 
face,  burning  hands,  and  flashing  eyes,  and  trem- 
bles with  fear  lest  she  be  ill.  It  is  the  intense 
effort  of  living  two  lives,  of  listening  to  two  voices. 
While  she  hears  those  from  without,  and  speaks 
and  answers  and  with  rigid  firmness  fulfils  her 
duty,  a  thousand  other  voices  speak  within  her, 
a  strange  music  rising  from  her  soul,  wishing  to 
break  out ;  but  it  must  not  before  the  dead  of 
night,  when  all  is  silent  around  her  and  the  duty 
of  the  day  is  done. 

It  is  then  that  a  vast  radiant  horizon  opens 
before  her.  He  who  reads  her  poetry  might 
think  that  she  has  seen  and  known  everything ; 
but  she  knows  only  solitude  and  misfortune,  a 
dark,  cold  world  where  the  light  from  without 
appears  dazzling,  and  the  world  of  the  fortunate 
more  sweet  and  warm  than  it  really  is. 

Ada  Negri  has  read  very  few  modern  books,  but 
she  knows  them  all  from  the  various  contradictory 
criticisms  of  the  literary  reviews  ;  and  it  is  strange 

XV 


Ada  Negri  how  she  seizes  the  truth  out  of  the  good  and  the 
bad,  said  of  them.  She  has  never  seen  a  theatre, 
but  is  enthusiastic  about  Duse,  and  has  been  pos- 
sessed lately  by  such  a  craving  to  see  and  hear 
her  that  she  can  think  of  nothing  else  :  it  is 
always  her  papers  and  periodicals  that  bring  her 
information,  a  whole  bundle  of  them,  almost  all 
there  are  in  Italy,  which  she  has  been  receiving 
every  week  for  the  last  two  years,  bearing  the 
Milan  post-mark,  from  an  admirer  that  has  never 
let  her  know  his  identity. 

Ada  Negri  has  never  seen  the  sea,  either,  nor 
does  she  know  the  mountains,  or  even  the  hills 
and  a  lake  :  a  few  months  ago  one  could  say  not 
even  a  large  city,  as  she  did  nothing  but  pass 
through  Milan  from  Porta  Ticinese  to  Porta  Ro- 
mana  to  go  to  Lodi  to  spend  her  vacation  with 
her  mother. 

This  summer  some  friends  detained  her  for  two 
days,  and  it  was  indeed  a  new  life  that  opened 
wide  before  her  eyes  in  the  great  populous  city, 
at  the  season  when  the  races  and  the  exhibidons 
made  it  so  brilliant.  Crowds,  bent  on  pleasure, 
passed  by  her  with  the  splendour  of  luxury,  beauty, 
and  elegance.  Art,  of  which  she  caught  a  glimpse 
at  Brera,  filled  her  with  wonder,  moved  her 
deeply,  inspired  her ;  the  magic  charm  of  distant 
lands  and  nations  held  her  spellbound  before  those 
Egyptians  and  their  horses,  those  brown  almees 
with  their  painted  eyes. 

Two  dream-days :  the  whole  little  slender 
xvi 


figure  vibrated,  the  big  black  eyes  burned  as  in  a   Ada  Negri 
fever ;  her  friends  asked  themselves  if  they  had 
not  done  wrong  in  showing  her  that  which  she 
could  not  enjoy  for  a  longer  time. 

She  returned  to  put  on  her  wooden  shoes  again  ; 
she  returned  to  teach  spelling  to  her  eighty  noisy, 
hard-headed  children,  but  she  no  longer  knew 
how  to  be  quiet  and  resigned  to  her  obscure  lot. 

There  will  be  many  who,  on  reading  her  book, 
will  say  that  there  is  in  it  a  note  of  insistence,  too 
often  struck :  it  is  true,  she  herself  feels  it  and 
acknowledges  it :  but  it  is  so,  it  is  her  present 
self;  it  is  the  mournful,  incessant  bell,  calling  for 
help  ;  it  is  her  youth,  rebelling  against  pain, 
which  has  been  her  constant  companion  ;  it  is  the 
outcry  of  genius,  struggling  not  to  be  buried 
alive. 

I  am  a  poet,  a  poet,  and  the  light  of  glory 
smiles  not  on  me. 

Still,  how  sad  and  sweet  is  her  song  at  times, 
how  her  youth,  weary  of  longing  for  the  future, 
turns  to  the  past,  and  she  becomes  a  child  again 
and  rests  beside  her  mother's  knee. 

Mother,  here  —  in  the  silence  —  near  thee  kneeling  : 

And  she  questions  : 

Why  should  we  suffer  and  yet  be  forgiving  ?  • 

And  vyhy  should  love  with  dazzling  magic  stream 
Through  our  hearts,  a  winged  hymn  and  living, 
Then  all  be  shattered  even  as  a  dream  ? 
Why  should  we  suffer  and  yet  be  forgiving  ? 
xvii 


Ada  Negri  The  sweet  note  of  Ada  Negri's  lyric  poetry 
always  flows  either  from  memories  of  her  child- 
hood, rocked  by  her  mother's  love,  or  from  ma- 
ternal love,  appearing  to  her  as  a  far-away  Fata 
Morgana  of  peace.  Desolation,  therefore,  never 
possesses  Ada  Negri  long ;  she  rebounds  like  a 
steel  spring  ;  the  bitterness  of  discomfort  is  silenced 
in  a  flash  of  defiance,  in  an  outburst  of  daring 
hope.  It  seems  as  if  her  litde  figure  grew  taller, 
when,  defying  misery,  the  "  drear,  toothless 
ghost,"  she  exclaims  : 

—  Mine  are  youth  and  life  ! 
Thou  shalt  not  see  me,  no, 
Not  see  me  fainting  in  this  fatal  strife  : 
O'er  fallen  ruins,  over  grief  and  tears, 
Triumph  my  twenty  years  ! 

And  how  deeply  are  we  moved  when  she  says, 
poor  creature : 

Down  in  the  world  there,  see  ! 
What  roses  and  what  sunlight  far  and  nigh  ! 
List  to  the  jubilee, 

The  trills  of  larks  up  in  the  radiant  sky: 
The  air  with  faith  and  with  ideals  rings 

And  fluttering  of  wings. 

But  we  are  filled  with  admiration  when  this  cour- 
ageous girl,  proud  in  her  virtue  and  her  genius, 
adds  : 

For  labour's  dignity 

That  nobly  governs  all,  I  long, 

and,  haughtily  dismissing  the  "  black  enchantress," 
says  : 

xviii 


And  I  from  out  thy  meshes  boldly  spring  Ada  Negri 

Life's  hymn  of  praise  to  sing  ! 

If  there  is  any  poetry  felt  by  every  one,  it  is 
that  of  Ada  Negri,  so  essentially  modern  and 
democratic.  There  is  in  it  that  "  stormy  pres- 
ent ' '  invoked  by  Arturo  Graf,  here  truly  swelled 
to  a  tide,  "the  immense  flood  of  voices  that 
overwhelm  us  with  wonder  and  pity,  that  kindle 
us  with  enthusiasm,  that  fill  us  with  a  mortal 
sadness." 

Sofia  Bisi  Albini. 


XIX 


FATE 


A  FIGURE,  awful  to  behold,  austere. 
Stood  by  my  bed  last  night. 
The  dagger  at  her  side  filled  me  with  fear, 
Her  eyes  flashed  down  at  me  with  scornful  light. 
"I  am  Misfortune.      Hear, 

Thou  shrinking  child,  where'er  thou  mayest  be 

I  '11  never  leave  thee  —  nay. 
Through  thorns  and  flowers,  to  death  I  '11  follow 

thee. 
Even  in  the  void  beyond  near  thee  to  stay." 

I  sobbed  :   **  Away,  away!  " 

She  firmly  stayed,  and  from  me  would  not  go. 

She  spoke  :   "  'Tis  thus  decreed. 
Pale  flower  of  the  cypress,  of  the  snow. 
Of  crime  and  of  the  tomb,  poor  human  weed, 

Above  't  is  thus  decreed." 

I  rose  and  cried  :    "  But  it  is  hope  I  crave," 

To  make  my  young  days  bright. 
In  thrills  of  love  exultingly  to  rave, 
I  want  the  kiss  of  genius  and  of  light !  — 
Oh  go,  oh  go  away  !  " 
I 


Fatf  She  spoke  :   "He  who  creates  in  suffering's  night 

Alone  sees  glory's  day. 
'Tis    pain    that    teaches   thoughts    their   highest 

flight,  — 
For  him  who  bravely  fights  is  victory." 
I  slowly  answered  :   **  Stay  1 " 


NAMELESS 

1HAVE  no  name.  —  My  home  a  hovel  damp, 
I  grew  up  from  the  mire. 
Wretched  and  outcast  folk  my  family. 
And  yet  within  me  burns  a  flame  of  fire. 

A  praying  angel  and  an  evil  dwarf 

Are  ever  at  my  side. 
My  thought  is  galloping  o'er  hill  and  plain 
As  did  Mazeppa  on  his  deathly  ride. 

A  strange  enigma  I  of  hate  and  love. 

Of  strength  and  gentleness; 
The  black  abyss  attracts  me  with  its  gloom. 
And  I  am  softened  by  a  child's  caress. 

When,  knocking  at  the  door  of  my  low  room. 

Misfortune  comes,  I  laugh. 
I  laugh  when  I  'm  forsaken  or  assailed. 
When  I  am  joyless,  comfortless,  I  laugh. 

2 


But  over  trembling  worn  old  age,  o'er  those  Nameless 

That  have  no  bread,  I  weep. 
I  weep  o'er  tender  children  thin  and  wan. 
And  o'er  a  thousand  unknown  woes  I  weep. 

And  when  the  tears,  that  fill  my  heart,  in  strange. 

In  daring  song  o'erflow. 
That  thrills  my  breast  and  quivers  on  my  lips. 
My  soul's  whole  fervour  into  it  I  throw. 

I  care  not  who  may  hear.     When  dastard  hate 

Would  strike  me  or  defame. 
Defying  fate,  T  pass  and  do  not  look  : 
The  poisonous  arrow  thus  must  miss  its  aim. 


DISTURB   ME   NOT 

WHEN  to  thy  words  of  love  I  do  not  listen 
And  when  my  eyes  shine  bright. 
And  when  with  sudden  and  unwonted  pallor 
My  lips  and  cheeks  grow  white. 

When,  lost  in  thought  and  of  all  else  forgetful. 

My  dusky  head  I  raise. 
Disturb  me  not  —  a  world  divine  lies  open  — 

Immense  —  before  my  gaze. 

I  see  the  sun  from  out  the  clouds  descending. 

Nude  youth  with  radiant  face. 
Enfold  the  maiden  earth,  adorned  with  myrtle. 

In  powerful  embrace ; 
3 


Disturb      And    from   the   hay,   just    cut,    and     from    the 
^'  ^"^  cornfields 

That  wave  like  golden  seas. 
From  the  oases  in  the  distant  desert. 

From  oak  and  cypress-trees. 

From  the  great  woods,  howling  amid  the  tempest. 

With  wildly  passionate  cry. 
At  the  voluptuous  thrill  of  love,  reviving 

Creation  far  and  nigh, 

I  hear,  I  hear,  as  birds  spread  wide  their  pinions 

And  rise  in  straggling  flight. 
Tremendous  gusts  of  wind  soar  up  triumphant 

With  strength  and  health's  delight. 

All  is  abloom  with  radiant  hopes  and  roses. 

With  pure,  confiding  hearts. 
Victorious  efforts,  noble  exultations. 

Daring  inventions,  arts  : 

No  longer  blood,  no  longer  blood  is  flooding 

The  earth  in  gory  run. 
No  longer  war,  the  sorcerer  inhuman. 

Is  levelling  his  gun  ; 

No  longer  now  the  cannon  madly  filleth 
The  air  with  thunderous  roar, 

And  battle-songs  amid  the  raging  slaughter 
Fly  back  and  forth  no  more  ; 
4 


All  men  are  one  :  with  ecstasy  most  sacred  Disturb 

Inspired  as  ne'er  before.  ^'  ^"^ 

A  sweet  and  solemn  chant  of  peace  is  wafted 
Across  from  shore  to  shore. 

Steam  snorts  and    shrieks,  machines  are  fiercely 
groaning. 

Red  burns  the  furnace-glow. 
Cleaving  the  fertile  glebe,  the  steady  ploughshare 

Is  toiling  to  and  fro. 

And  o'er  the  earth  that,  like  a  lion  roaring. 

With  industry  doth  teem. 
Proud  in  the  wind  her  pinions  white  unfolding. 

Rules  Liberty  supreme. 


THE   WAVES   FLOW   ON 

BETWEEN  the  rugged  banks  with  steady  force 
The  waves  flow  weeping  on.    The  leaden  sky 
Is  listening.      Not  a  smile  there  is  on  high. 
No  breath  stirs  in  the  night.     Along  their  course 

The  waves  flow  weeping  on.     Upon  their  breast 
In  sadness  grave  they  carry  down  the  vale 
The  lifeless  body  of  a  lovely,  pale. 
Unhappy  girl  who  in  their  depth  sought  rest. 

The  waves  flow  weeping  on  —  in  this  lament 
The  echo  rings  of  a  strange  mystery. 
The  human  cry,  the  sobs  of  misery 
Of  a  wild  desperate  love  —  defeated  —  spent. 
5 


THE   STREET   URCHIN 

WHEN  in  the  muddy  street,  I  see  him  run- 
ning. 
His  little  shoes  all  worn. 
His  trousers  ragged  and  his  jacket  torn. 
His  handsome  face  most  mischievous  and  cunning  ; 

And  when  I  see  him  'mid  the  surging  eddy 

Of  carts,  he  steals  or  begs. 
Now  deftly  throwing  stones  at  poor  curs'  legs. 
Bold  and  corrupt,  a  youthfiil  thief  already  ; 

And  when  I  see  him  laugh,  I  can't  help  thinking  : 

**  His  mother  is  all  day 
There  in  the  mill  ;  in  prison  his  father  —  nay. 
Poor  flower  he  of  thorns  !  "  —  My  heart  is  sinking 

Within  me,  with  anxiety  I  wonder : 

**  What  will  become  of  thee. 
Without  a  guide  on  this  tempestuous  sea 
Of  life,  forlorn  and  ignorant  ?     I  wonder 

What  thou  wilt  be  and  what  will  be  thy  station 

Some  twenty  years  from  now  ; 
An  honest  workman  with  a  sunburnt  brow  ? 
A  useful  member  of  our  struggling  nation  ? 

The  labourer's  honest  shirt  shalt  thou  be  wearing 

Or  convict's  garb  !      Or  shall 
I  see  thee  wretched  at  the  hospital. 
At  work,  in  prison,  a  vagabond  wayfaring  ?" 
6 


And  lo  !  Across  the  street  I  would  run  over  The 

And  in  supreme  distress.  Urchin 

In  agony,  in  pity  I  would  press 
Him  to  my  heart ;   with  kisses  I  would  cover 

His    mouth,  his    forehead ;    close    beside    him 
kneeling. 

Would  whisper  in  his  ears. 
Choked  by  compassion's  quickly  rising  tears. 
These  sacred  words,  full  of  a  sister's  feeling  : 

"I  too  was  born  'mong  thorns,  the  sky  above  me. 

My  mother  too  for  me 
Was  working  hard  there  in  the  factory, 
I  know  what  want  and  suffering  mean  —  I  love 
thee." 


JEALOUS   OF   THEE 

ONE  day  I  saw  thee  pass. —  In  my  disdainful 
And  lonely  soul  at  once  —  I  know  not  why — 
Suspicion  thrilled  through  me  : 
But  now  I  know  thee,  hate  thee,  jealous  ay  ! 
Jealous  I  am  of  thee  ! 

Go,  siren,  go  and  triumph.      God  hath  given 
To  thee  thy  wayward  and  thy  supple  grace, 

A  dazzling  treasure  rare  : 
Fatal  as  lust,  enticing  is  thy  face. 
White  maiden  with  thy  braids  of  golden  hair  I 
7 


Jealous  of  Why  hast   thou   come  ?     When  of  thy   youth's 
^^"  fair  blossom. 

Thy  daring  fascination  I  caught  sight. 

From  me  my  hope  all  fled  ; 
My  splendid  dream,  alas  !    lies  shattered  quite. 
With  broken  pinions  —  dead. 

Ah,  if  thou  didst  but  know  what  souls  can  suffer 
When  they  are  rent  by  passion's  sharpest  thorn. 

When  love  is  dead  and  gone. 
How  empty  seems  the  world,  when  all  forlorn 
The  heart  is  left  neglected  and  alone  ! 

Oh  could  I  but  forget  the  rosy  visions 
Of  my  infatuate,  my  passionate  dream 

Of  happy  youth  !      The  sun 
Of  joy  on  me  never  again  shall  beam. 

Love  —  life  for  me  are  done. 


Go,  siren,  go  and  triumph.  —  Thine  the  laughter. 
The  false  brief  feast  of  sweet  voluptuousness  ; 

If  my  own  time  is  set. 
And  I  must  be  abandoned  in  distress. 
The  wrath  of  fate  shall  overtake  thee  yet. 

When  lonely  'mid  the  ruins  of  thy  passion. 
The  wild  intoxication  which  is  lost 

Thou  seekest  in  dismay. 
When  once  thou  cravest,  shivering  with  frost. 

The  glow  of  love's  past  day. 


Erect  and  haughty  I  shall  rise  before  thee.  Jealous  of 

A  ghost  of  vengeance  dread,  wrapt  in  a  shroud,      ■'^^^ 

Glad  of  thy  pain,  shall  dare 
At  thy  lost  happiness  to  laugh  aloud. 
White  maiden  with  thy  braids  of  golden  hair : 

Because,  proud  of  thy  beauty,  thou  hast  trodden 
Into  the  dust  my  dream  of  rosy  gold 

With  shameless  foot.       Ah  me  ! 
I  hate  thee,  jealous  am  I,  siren  bold. 

Jealous  am  I  of  thee  ! 


A  SHORT   STORY 

SHE  seemed  a  poet's  dream,  divinely  fair  ; 
White  always  was  her  raiment,  calm  and  still 
As  of  the  Orient  sphinx  her  wondrous  face. 

Full,  long,  and  lustrous  flowed  her  silken  hair  ; 
Her  short  clear  laugh  seemed  like  a  bird's  sweet 

trill. 
Majestic,  statuelike  her  languid  grace. 

She  loved  —  without  return,  yet  fed  the  blaze 
Of  passion's  fire  which  her  clear  brow  belied. 
And  of  this  hidden  flame  she  spoke  to  none. 

The  unfulfilled  desire  consumed  her  days  — 
In  an  October  twilight  hour  she  died. 
As  the  verbena  dies  for  want  of  sun. 


AUTOPSY 


OH,  haggard  doctor,  who  with  eyes  intent. 
Shining  with  fervid  zeal. 
Dost  now  my  naked  corpse  dissect,  torment 
With  thine  unflinching  steel, 

Knowest  thou  who  I  was  ?  —  While  searching 
through 

My  body  with  thy  knife. 
In  this  sepulchral  chamber  listen  to 

The  story  of  my  life. 

Alone  upon  the  streets  I  lived.      I  had 

No  parents  and  no  home  ; 
Barefoot,  without  a  name,  I,  hardly  clad. 

In  wind  and  cold  did  roam. 

I  knew  the  sleepless  nights  of  useless  prayer. 

Full  of  the  morrow's  dread, 
I  knew  the  days  of  secret  dire  despair. 

Those  long  days  without  bread. 

I  knew  all  vice,  I  drained  tears'  bitter  cup. 

Tasted  fear's  agony, 
'Mong  hostile  squalid  people  I  grew  up 

In  darkest  misery  ; 

And  in  a  hospital  I  lay  one  day 

Upon  a  neat  white  bed. 
When,  lo !  a  black  colossal  bird  of  prey 

Its  pinions  o'er  me  spread. 

lO 


And  thus  I  died,  like  a  poor  dog  astray.  Autopsy 

Dost  understand  ?  —  Alone, 
Without  a  word  of  hope  I  passed  away 

Into  the  dark  unknown  ! 

How  full  and  lustrous  flows  my  raven  hair. 

Unfastened  from  its  coil. 
Without  a  kiss  of  love  't  will  be  somewhere 

Laid  in  the  cold  black  soil. 

How  white  and  virginlike,  how  lithe  is  this 

My  body,  how  well  made  ! 
It  is  disgraced  now  by  the  lustful  kiss 

Of  thy  too  eager  blade. 

With  a  sinister  smile,  untiring,  tear 

My  bowels  out,  and  still 
Gloat  over  my  sold  corpse  ;  go  on  to  bare 

My  bones  and  veins  at  will. 

What  does  it  matter  ?     Naught  but  refuse  I. 

Dig  deep,  seek  zealously 
The  awful  secret  thou  of  hunger,  try 

To  solve  its  mystery. 

Wrench  out  my  heart,  its  organism  sound, 

And  try  thou  to  explain 
The  wondrous  mystery,  sublime,  profound. 

The  mystery  of  pain. 
II 


Autopsy      Dost  thou  not  know  it  ?   Thus  beneath  thy  gaze. 
Naked,  I  suffer  yet. 
Staring  at  thee  from  out  my  eyes'  dull  glaze. 
Thou  never  shalt  forget. 

Never  forget  me,  for  vv^ith  my  last  breath. 

Passion's  last  effort  dread. 
Deep  from  my  breast  a  gurgling  gasp  of  death, 

A  malediction  fled. 


SNOW 


ON  fields  and  streets  below 
In  wildly  whirling  flight 
Falls  noiselessly  and  light 
The  snow. 

The  white  flakes  dance  their  best 
In  heaven's  hall  on  high. 
Then,  tired,  down  they  lie 
To  rest. 

On  roofs  and  chimneys  steep 
That  wrapped  in  silence  stand. 
On  graves  and  garden-land 
They  sleep. 

And  all  is  peace  profound  : 
Lost  in  oblivion  quite. 
The  world  lies  still  and  white. 
Snowbound. 

12 


Infinite  calm  supreme  Snow 

Descends  from  heaven  above. 
And  of  a  slumbering  love 
I  dream. 


MIST 


I  SUFFER.  —  Far  away 
The  mists  in  dreamy  train 
Rise  from  the  silent  plain 
All  gray. 

The  ravens  black  on  high 
The  air  with  croakings  fill. 
Across  the  moorland  still 
They  fly. 

The  trees  their  branches  bare 
Towards  the  clouds  that  drift 
Imploringly  uplift 

In  prayer. 

I  shiver  !  —  I'm  alone  !  — 
Weighed  down  by  the  gray  sky. 
Floats  in  the  twilight  by 
A  moan. 

Repeating  to  me  :   Come 
And  leave  this  gloomy  vale. 
Unloved  one,  sad  and  pale, 
Oh  come  ! 

13 


NIGHT 


ON  the  fantastic  garden 
Whence  balms  of  roses  rise 
The  night's  caressing  shadow 
In  silence  lies. 

And  yet  a  thought,  a  heart-beat 
Is  throbbing  as  it  were 
Aud  trembling  like  a  shudder 
Within  the  air. 

Hark  !  does  the  dusky  darkness 
With  faintly  halting  breath 
Tell  to  the  withered  thistles 
A  tale  of  death  ? 

Maybe  — for  gentle  showers 
Of  shining  dewdrops  fall 
Into  the  half-closed  petals 

From  heaven's  hall. 

Yea,  over  silent  suffering 
Of  now  and  long  ago. 
And  over  untold  anguish 

And  untold  woe. 

And  over  love- spells  broken. 
O'er  bygone  joys  and  fears 
The  mournful  night  is  weeping 
Her  tender  tears. 
14 


AS   LONG   AS   I   LIVE   AND   BEYOND 

SHE  said  to  me  :   **  Thou  never  laughest,  nay. 
Thy  biting  verse  with  malediction  rings. 
Thou  knowest  not  the  lay 
Where  joy  plays  in  the  sun,  where  zephyr's  breath 
Music  of  kisses  brings. 

Thou  knowest  not  that  Phoebian  song  of  yore 
That  like  an  antique  goddess,  naked,  fair. 

Her  mantle  drops  to  soar. 
Scattering  acanthus  and  wistaria  sweet. 

Into  the  balmy  air." 

"  Where  wert  thou  born  ?  "  again  she  spoke  to  me ; 
"  Whence,  singer  of  misfortune,  dost  thou  come  ? 

What  evil  fay  on  thee. 
When  in  thy  cradle,   wrought    her    spell  ?  "  — 
And  I: 

"A  lowly  hut  my  home. 

I  grew  up  from  the  mire.     From  far  and  near 
Throughout  the  fervent  hymns  forever  sent 

From  the  whole  earth,  I  hear. 
Ringing  e'en  through  the  triumph  of  the  sun. 

An  echo  of  lament. 

There  falls  upon  my  heart  a  crimson  rain 
Of  crying  blood,  dripping  from  riddled  chests. 

The  blood  of  those  brave  slain 
Who  gave  their  lives  when  shaken  liberty 

A  bulwark  asked  of  breasts. 

15 


As  Long     And  from  the  dens  where  live  in  squalor  dread, 
as  /Live    Huddled  together,  the  tumultuous  crowd 
Beyond  Who  on  the  scanty  bread 

That  labour  yields  impatient  fling  themselves. 
Clamouring  with  greed  aloud; 

And  from  the  din  of  sultry  factories  where 
Monsters  of  steel,  huge  engines  snort  all  day. 

And  where  the  pungent  air 
Poisons  the  blood  of  the  pale  weaver-girls 

And  makes  them  waste  away  ; 

From  the  miasmal  rice-plantations  there. 
From  barren  fields  where  weary  peasants  plod. 

From  walled-in  houses,  where 
So  many  inert  creatures  prostrate  lives 

Spend  in  the  name  of  God, 

There  comes  to  me  of  weeping  manifold 
The  stifled  sound  that  will  not  cease  to  stun 

My  heart  with  woe  untold, 
A  bat  that  flits  about  me  in  the  dark, 

A  cloud  that  hides  the  sun  ! 


And  joy  and  beauty  flee  away  from  me. 
Light,  scarce  awakened  by  the  morning,  wanes. 

Love's  daring  dreams  all  flee. 
The  blissful  ecstasy  of  kisses  sweet  — 

And  naught  but  pain  remains  !  — 
i6 


But  it  is  pain  that  never  will  incline  As  Long 

Its  head,  but,  rising,  points  to  God  on  high  —       "and^*^' 

That  power,  that  strength  divine.  Beyond 

That  kept  Prometheus  chained  upon  his  rock 

And  would  not  let  him  die. 


And  o'er  the  pallid  listening  crowd  intent 
My  tragic  song  soareth  in  broken  flight 

As  a  great  eagle,  spent. 
Wounded  to  death,  descendeth  on  the  ice 

Of  yonder  glacier's  height." 


IN   THE   BREACH 

TRAGIC,  severe,  in  serried  ranks  they  pass. 
Bareheaded,  silently. 
And  from  the  coffin  with  sad  dignity 
Float  down  the  folds  of  the  black  pall.  —  Alas  ! 

A  gloomy  pain  is  set  on  every  brow. 

They  solemnly  go  by. 
In  vain  smiles  over  them  the  cloudless  sky  ; 
Their  tears  roll  down,   they  do  not  heed  them 
now. 

His  mutilated  body  lies  inside 

Those  boards,  disfigured,  marred.  — 
From  the  high  roof  he  fell  and  struck  the  hard 
Stone  flagging  in  the  street  below,  and  died. 

2  17 


In  the         Strong,  handsome  as  a  Titan,  e'er  he  fell. 

Breach  ^nd  full  of  hope  and  life. 

He  had  been  working  there.      His  stricken  wife 
Is  wrung  with  grief,  no  human  speech  can  tell. 

To  realms  of  sleep's  forgetfulness,  alas  ! 

They  carry  him  and  sigh.  — 
Beneath  the  finger  stern  of  God  on  high 
Tragic,  severe,  in  serried  ranks  they  pass 

And   think.  —  Oh   fate  !  —  Like  him  they   also 

might. 

Perhaps  soon,  have  to  go. 
A  workman  is  a  soldier  ;  well  they  know,  — 
Their  breasts  are  heaving,  and  their  cheeks  grow 

white. 

Herculean  and  courageous  they  to-day 

Have  for  their  dreams  an  aim  : 
A  family,  a  hut,  some  darling  name. 
Who  knows  ?  they  too  at  work  to-morrow  may 

Fall  from  a  roof,  be  crushed  beneath  a  beam. 

Meet  death  in  other  guise. 
None  listens  to  the  cry  of  him  who  dies. 
None  understands  the  sacrifice  supreme. 

Ever  the  living  take  the  vacant  place  : 

New  hope  from  mourning  grows  : 
A  never-ending  army  onward  goes. 
O'er  the  defeated  —  on  at  heedless  pace. 
i8 


As  children,  gayly  clamouring,  upon  In  the 

The  silent  graves  will  play.  Breach 

Unmindful  eager  masses  march  away. 
On  o'er  the  fallen  victims  —  ever  on. 

GOOD-MORROW,    MISERY 

To  Sofia  Bisi  Albini 

WHO  knocks  ?  —  Who  is  out  there  ?  — 
—  Good-morrow,  Misery,  advance,  come 
in. 
Thou  art  cold  as  death,  come  in,   my  dwelling 

share. 
Secure,  defiant,  I  await  thee,  thin. 
Drear,  toothless  ghost,  thou  dost  not  frighten  me. 
Behold  !  —  I  laugh  at  thee. 

Does  that  suffice  thee  ?  —  Pray, 

Come  in,  accursed  spectre,  come  and  rest. 

Take  all  my  hope  away. 

Wrench    it    with   thy   sharp   nails  from  out  my 

breast 
And  with  thy  gloomy  pinions  overspread 
My  dying  mother's  bed. 

Thy  wrath  is  kindled  ?  —  Oh, 
What  matters  it  ?     For  mine  are  youth  and  life  ! 
Thou  shalt  not  see  me,  no  ! 
Not  see  me  fainting  in  this  fatal  strife. 
O'er  fallen  ruins,  over  grief  and  tears 
Triumph  my  twenty  years. 

19 


Good-         Thou  canst  not  evermore 

^Miserv'      ^^^^  from  my  heart  that  glowing  force  divine. 

Upward  I  ever  soar. 

Thou  canst  not  stop  that  buoyant  flight  of  mine. 

Thy  sting  is  impotent.  —  Grim  goddess,  nay, 
I  follow  my  own  way. 

Down  in  the  world  there,  see  ! 
What  roses  and  what  sunlight  far  and  nigh. 
List  to  the  jubilee. 

The  trills  of  larks  up  in  the  radiant  sky  : 
The  air  with  faith  and  with  ideals  rings 
And  fluttering  of  wings  !  — 

Megeara  wan  and  old, 
Hiding  thyself  in  a  sinister  shroud. 
Within  my  veins,  behold. 

There  floweth  blood  that  glows  with  ardour  proud. 
Anxiety,  tears,  anger,  I  defy 
And  ever  onward  fly. 

For  labour's  dignity 

That  nobly  governs  all,  I  long ;  my  heart 
Craves  dreams  and  harmony. 
It  craves  the  everlasting  youth  of  art. 
The  laughing  azure  deep,  the  balm  of  flowers. 
Stars,  kisses,  blissful  hours. 

Thou  passest  on,  O  black 
Enchantress,  as  a  shadow  o'er  the  light. 
Resplendent  hope  comes  back, 
20 


All,  all  revives,  the  violets  smile  bright :  Good- 

And  I  from  out  thy  meshes  boldly  spring  morrow^ 

Life's  hymn  of  praise  to  sing  ! 


THE   OLD   MAN 

In  Church 

THOU  art  alone  here.  —  Pray, 
O   pale    old    man.  —  What    sad     thought 
guided  thee  ? 
What  made  thee  turn  this  way  ? 
The  God,  who  sent  thee  joy  and  sorrow,  here 
Within  the  dark  church  speaks  to  thee  maybe. 
That  mighty  Lord  that  filleth  thee  with  fear  i 

There  pass  before  thy  mind 

The  memories  of  years  that  long  have  fled 

Forever,  and  behind 

Thee  lies  of  thy  past  life  the  Calvary  ; 

The  life  of  serf,  of  beggar,  thou  hast  led. 

So  full  of  darkness,  suffering,  misery. 

Here  in  the  silence  pray. 

All  unawares  with  passing  years  depart 

The  hopes  of  youth's  brief  day  ; 

Its  wishes,  its  illusions,  all  grow  dim. 

Yet  once  there  rang  within  thy  trusting  heart 

A  first  love's  glorious  all-inspiring  hymn. 

21 


The  Old     Yea,  for  that  enemy  dread, 
Man  That  cruel  fate  that  bent  beneath  its  yoke 

Thy  proud,  thy  lofty  head. 

For  thy  sad  youth,  marred  by  contempt  and  strife. 
Nay,  for  the  very  rags  of  thy  poor  cloak. 
She  loved  thee,  and  she   followed  thee  through 
life. 


Fair-haired  and  slender  she  ; 

Shining  from  out  her  eyes'  sweet  dignity. 

Her  pure  soul  you  could  see. 

She  shared  with  thee  the  burden  of  distress. 

She  shared  the  world's  disdainful  charity. 

And  poverty's  disgrace  and  loneliness. 


And  then  —  she  went  to  sleep. 

Thy  tender  kiss  closing  her  lovely  eyes. 

Ah,  tell  me,  to  what  deep 

Abyss  did  she  retreat,  or  far  above 

Did  she  conceal  herself  in  the  blue  skies. 

That  gold-haired  fay,  thy  faithful  gipsy  love  ? 

Thou  art  alone  here.  —  Pray, 

Old  tottering  man.  —  What  sad  thought  guided 

thee  ? 
What  made  thee  turn  this  way  ? 
That  mighty  Lord  that  guards  thee  all  the  while 
Here  in  the  dark  church  speaks  to  thee  maybe. 
Who  in  misfortune  yet  gave  thee  her  smile. 

22 


All  fades,  the  tempest  wanes,        '  The  Old 

The  evening  of  thy  life  draws  near  its  verge,  "^'^^ 

Naught  here  to  thee  remains. 

O'er  thee,  a  serf,  a  beggar,  harsh  and  rough 

Has  been  of  adverse  fate  the  cruel  scourge  — 

But  thou  hast  been  beloved  !  —  That  is  enough. 


THE   SONG   QF   THE  PICKAXE 

A  RUSTIC  sword  that  cleaves  the  soil  am  I, 
I  am  force,  and  yet  I  grope 
In  ignorance  ;  I  thrill  with  hunger's  cry  ; 
I  am  misery  and  hope. 

I  know  the  red-hot  scourge  of  noontide's  glow. 
The  thunder's  deafening  crash. 

The  hurricane's  tremendous  clouds  I  know 
From  which  the  lightnings  flash. 

I  know  the  fertile  odours  sweet  that  May 

In  wild  triumphant  mirth. 
With  royal  flowers,  insects  and  kisses  gay 

Calls  forth  from  out  the  earth. 

Ever  more  sharp,  more  smooth  and  bright  I  grow 

With  every  hour  of  toil. 
As,  constant,  strong,  submissive,  on  I  go 

Cleaving  the  hardened  soil. 
23 


The  Song      Into  the  lonely  farmhouse  gray  and  old, 
°f*^j^  In  dingy  huts  and  low. 

Where  through  the  broken  casement  bitter  cold 
The  winds  of  winter  blow, 

Where  idleness,  by  smouldering  brand  that  sighs. 
Squats  mute  ;  where,  famished,  thin. 

Disease  is  shivering,  wan,  with  hollow  eyes. 
And  yellow,  withered  skin, 

I  enter  in  and  watch  as  I  remain 

In  a  lone  corner's  gloom. 
While  dreadful  dark  sinks  on  the  swampy  plain 

And  fills  the  smoky  room. 

While  fever  grim  the  women's  bodies  shakes. 

Working  its  cruel  blight. 
Naught  but  the  peasants'  heavy  breathing  breaks 

The  silence  of  the  night. 

I  watch  and  in  me  springs  a  hot  desire  : 

Of  a  new  dawn  I  dream. 
When,  golden  in  the  sun,  shining  like  fire. 

An  oriflamme  supreme. 

Brandished  by  an  inspired  rustic  crowd 

With  strong  almighty  hand, 
I  shall  be  raised  with  strength  and  life  endowed. 

Above  the  fertile  land, 
24 


But  free  my  blade  shall  be  from  bloody  stain.  The  Song 

And  banners  white  shall  fly,  "pickaxe 

The  dragon  dread  of  hatred  shall  be  slain. 
In  dust  downtrodden  lie. 


And  from  the  earth  that  is  with  fragrance  fraught. 

That  teems  with  joyous  love. 
Cleared  from  old  wars  that  hostile  forces  wrought 

By  ardour  from  above, 

A  mighty  tumult  hoarse  of  human  cries 

To  the  blue  sky  o'erhead. 
Mingled  with  sobs,  yet  as  a  hymn,  shall  rise  : 

"  Peace  !  —  Labour  !  —  Bread  !  " 


THE   DEFEATED 

YEA,  there  are  hundreds,  thousands,  millions 
more. 
Unending  hosts  there  are. 
The  serried  ranks  are  muttering  Kke  the  roar 
Of  thunder  from  afar. 

And  they  advance,  chilled  by  the  icy  air. 

With  even  step  and  slow. 
They  're  clad  in  sackcloth  and  their  heads  are  bare. 

Their  eyes  in  fever  glow. 

25 


The  All,  all  united,  as  if  seeking  me  — 

Defeated  Gray  forms,  by  suffering  bowed. 

Of  surging  waves  a  turbid,  troubled  sea. 
Of  faces  wan  a  crowd. 


Covering,  imprisoning  me,  they  press  around. 
Their  hoarse  breath  fills  my  ear. 

Their    long-drawn    sobs  and   sighs  —  oh,  woful 
sound  — 

Their  blasphemies  I  hear. 


"  We  come  from  houses  where  no  fire  glows. 

From  beds  where  rest  is  not. 
Where,  broken,  tamed,  the  body  slowly  grows 

Accustomed  to  its  lot. 


We  come  from  caves  and  dens,  from  chambers 
low. 

From  many  a  dark  retreat. 
Shadows  of  peril  and  of  pain  we  throw 
Wherever  tread  our  feet. 


And  we  sought  faith  that  to  ideals  cleaves, 

Alas  !  we  were  betrayed  ; 
And  we  sought  love  that  hopes  and  that  believes, 

Alas  !  we  were  betrayed. 
26 


And   work   we   sought   that  gives   new  life  and  The 
strength,  ^'f'"*"^ 

Only  repelled  to  be. 
Where  then  is  hope  ?     Oh  mercy  !      Where  is 
strength  ?  — 

The  world's  defeated,  we  ! 

In  the  great  flood  of  sunshine's  golden  light 

All  round  us  and  above 
Bursts  forth  upon  the  air  in  joyous  flight 

A  hymn  of  work  and  love  : 

An  iron  snake  the  steam- train  thundering  winds 

Through  towering  mountain-wall. 
And  industry  is  summoning  arms  and  minds 

With  warlike  trumpet-call. 

A  thousand  mouths  each  other  seek,  enticed 

By  love's  intent  desire  ; 
A  thousand  generous  lives  are  sacrificed 

In  glowing  furnace-fire. 

And  we  are  useless  !  —  Who  has  thrust  us,  who 

On  this  stepmother  earth  ? 
Who  has  denied  us  every  wish  we  knew. 

Yea,  from  our  very  birth  ? 

What  unknown  power    with  hostile  hand    does 
reign 

And  will  not  let  us  free  ? 
Why  does  blind  fate  cry  out  to  us  :   In  vain  ?  — 
The  world's  defeated,  we  !  " 
27 


THE   HAND   IN   THE   WHEELWORK 

THE   belts   are  whirling,   the  machines  are 
screaming. 
And  those  at  work,  happy,  untiring,  strong. 
Join  in  a  joyous  song. 

But  suddenly  a  piercing  shriek  arises. 
As  a  wild  animal,  when  wounded  sore. 
Utters  a  frantic  roar. 

The   wheelwork's  gnashing  teeth  are  sharp  and 

cutting,  — 
Poor  mutilated  fair-haired  woman  ! — and, 
O  God  —  a  severed  hand  ! 


The  belts  are  whirling,  the  machines  are  screaming ; 
Alas  !  no  longer  now  the  working  throng 
Their  voices  raise  in  song. 

Mingled  with  drops  of  sweat  their  tears  are  falling. 
The  motor  in  the  distance  sighs  and  wails. 
And  telleth  woful  tales. 

Before  their  tear-dimmed  eyes  still  reappearing 
The  mutilated  fair-haired  woman,  —  and, 
O  God  —  that  severed  hand  ! 


28 


LOUD  GROANS  THE  MACHINE 

LOUD  groans  the  machine. —  Its  tempestuous 
roar 
Goes  up  as  an  eagle  to  fly. 
On  pinions  of  sound,  strong  and  solemn,  to  soar 
To  the  great  golden  clouds  in  the  sky. 

Loud  groans  the  machine.     'Tis  the  heart-rend- 
ing cry 

Of  him  who  gave  up  his  last  breath 
'Mid  the  merciless  teeth  of  the  wheelwork  to  die. 

Surrendering  his  life  unto  death. 

O'er  screws  and  o'er  beltings,  o'er  steel  and  o'er 
fire, 
A  ruler  with  power  unbound. 
The    huge    snorting    monster    with    dread    doth 
inspire 
As  it  revels  in  clamouring  sound. 

It  laughs  as  with  madness,  it  bellows  and  cries. 
Then,  slackening,  it  comes  to  a  stay  ; 

Again  it  renews  the  assault,  to  the  skies 
Ascends  the  prophetic  Huzza. 

**  Ye  champions  of  labour  to  come,  hear  the  call. 

Come  forth  to  take  part  in  the  strife  : 
With  axe,  spade,  and  saw,  with  the  hatchet,  come 
all 
To  the  grand  competition  of  life. 
29 


Loud         The  kiss  of  the  sun  on  your  faces  serene, 
(^"""f  "*'      Your  veins  swelled  with  vigour  and  mirth. 
And  quaffing  the  breezes  ambrosian  and  keen. 
And  fed  by  the  fruits  of  the  earth. 

Bold  champions,  come  forward  !  the  age  draweth 
nigh 
Of  freedom  in  glorious  array  "  — 
Loud  groans  the  machine  :  with  the  winds  to  the 
sky 
Ascends  the  prophetic  Huzza. 


ONE   OF  THE   PEOPLE 

THE  shuttles  fly,  the  thread  is  caught ;  with 
glee 
I  sing  :  My  eighteen  years, 
A  loom,  two  handsome  eyes  that  know  no  tears, 
A  cotton  dress,  a  love,  belong  to  me. 

When  I  untie  my  red  braid  and  a  lock 

Like  copper  flashes  bright. 
Through   eyes   that  look  at  me    there    shoots  a 

light 
And  hearts  are  thrilled  by  an  electric  shock. 

Yet  I  unheeding  pass  the  tempters  vile. 

Laugh  at  their  flattery  cheap. 
All,  all  my  kisses  for  mv  love  I  keep. 
The  world  I  'd  give  him  for  a  single  smile. 

30 


I  love  him.  —  Master  of  the  forge  is  he,  Om  of  the 

A  king  his  tools  among  ;  People 

Handsome,  tall,  muscular,  robust,  and  strong. 
Beside  him  but  a  child  I  seem  to  be. 

When  I  have  seen  him  at  the  anvil  stand. 

Lit  by  the  firelight. 
Beating  a  red-hot  bar  with  all  his  might. 
His  bare  neck  swelled,  a  hammer  in  his  hand. 

My  pride  in  him  to  ecstasy  has  grown. 

All  else  beside  seems  small  ; 
He  is  my  demon,  he  my  god,  my  all, 
I  want  him  for  myself,  myself  alone  ! 

When  in  my  attic-room  I  wait  for  him. 

And  precious  minutes  flee. 
Suspense  with  cruel  clutches  throttles  me, 
A  stinging  pain  runs  through  my  every  limb : 

Now  —  on  the  stairs  approaching  footsteps  fleet  — 

The  door  is  opened  —  and. 
Though    pale    my    lips,    despite    my    trembling 

hand. 
To  fly  toward  him  I  have  winged  feet. 

Though  black  with  smoke,  his  eyes  with  ardour 
shine. 

Tired  yet  with  smiling  face 
He  presses  me  in  passionate  embrace. 
And  his  strong  heart  is  beating  against  mine. 
31 


FLOWER   OF  THE   PEOPLE 

HAST  thou  not  seen  her  yet  ?  —  Like  copper 
red 
Her  glowing  cheeks  appear. 
A  goddess,  though  but  litter  is  her  bed, 
A  sun-browned  goddess,  ever  full  of  cheer. 

Always  she  smiles,  her  small  teeth  are  so  white. 

Her  lips  so  red,  thou  art 
Tempted  to  kiss  them.  —  The  bewitching  light 
That  sparkles  in  her  eyes  strikes  to  thy  heart ; 

Explain  it  ?  —  Nay,  not  I.      But  thrilling  through 

Thy  veins,  it  seizeth  thee. 
That  she  is  beautiful  she  never  knew. 
And  on  this  earth  she  loveth  none  but  me ! 

At  evening  at  yon'  corner  of  the  street 

She  waits  for  me,  alone. 
Her  eyes  flash  bright  as  soon  as  mine  they  meet. 
And  melody  rings  in  her  every  tone  ; 

Into  my  ear  she  whispers  foolish  words. 

So  many  flames  of  fire. 
I  feel  her  heart  beat  like  a  little  bird's. 
The  breath  from  out  her  lips,  warm  with  desire ; 

Although  a  sturdy  arm  is  all  I  own. 

No  cause  for  fear  I  see. 
She  will  be  happy  at  my  side  alone. 
And  nobody  can  wrest  my  love  from  me  ! 
32 


Hear    this  !  —  They    told    her    that    I  was    not  Flower  of 
true,  ^''^  ^'"P^' 

Told  her  the  name  one  day 
Of  her  fair  enemy.  — Ah,  pale  she  grew. 
Panting,  dishevelled,  mute  she  turned  away ; 

She  saw  her,  threatened  her,  with  mad  abuse 

She  bit  her  ;  as  a  horse 
That  runs  away  on  having  broken  loose. 
She  let  her  raging  fury  have  its  course. 

That    evening     I     returned.  —  She    neared    me, 
slow. 

Trembling  with  hopes  and  fears. 
And  with  a  voice  that  would  win  any  foe. 
Her  great  imploring  eyes  swimming  in  tears, 

A  humble  slave,  confused,  with  flowing  hair. 

Yet  fall  of  magic  power. 
In  her  impassioned  love  surpassing  fair. 
Entrancing,  beauteous  as  an  opening  flower. 

And,  drawing  near  me  with  a  shy  caress, 

'♦Forgive,"  she  whispered  low. 
**  Do  not  forsake  me,  do  not  love  me  less !  ^ 
Vengeance  I  had  to  take,  I  love  thee  so." 


II 


THE  PAGAN  KISS 

AMID  the  golden  corn,  beneath  the  beams 
That  fill  the  valley  with  their  glorious  bliss 
Till  every  dewdrop  gleams. 
Upon  her  fresh,  warm  mouth  burns  his  first  kiss. 

The  fields  below,  the  cloudless  sky  above. 

Laugh  at  the  happy  pair  ; 
In  the  pure  guileless  kiss  of  youthful  love 
All  things  rejoice.      Into  the  balmy  air, 

A  glowing  sigh  from  every  opening  cup. 
Sweet  perfume  rises,  as  from  mouths  that  long 

For  love.      From  earth  goes  up. 
From  blooming  earth  goes  up,  a  joyous  song. 

Smiling,  amid  the  green,  embrace  the  two 

Young  lovers,  while  on  high 
Beneath  the  lofty  vault  of  heaven  blue 
A  swallow's  trill  is  ringing  in  the  sky  ; 

'Mong   shady    boughs,   'mong  flowers  and  buds 

that  burst, 
'Mong  yellow  corn,  in  hidden  nests,  with  bliss. 

All  round  them  thrills  that  first 
Intoxicating,  life-begetting  kiss. 


34 


THE   ARABIAN   HORSE 

DREAMEST  thou  not  of  thy  far-away  land  ? 
Dreamest  thou  not  of  its  yellowish  sand. 
So  sunny  and  bright  ? 
Of  golden  and  level,  unlimited  space  ? 
Of  bold,  neighing  horses  that  jubilant  race 
In  buoyant  delight  ? 


When  thou  art  shaking  thy  beautiful  mane. 
When,  pawing  the  ground  with  impatience  in  vain. 

Thou  art  champing  thy  bit. 
When  wildly  and  loud  thou  art  neighing,  like  fire 
Deep  down  in  my  bosom  a  burning  desire 

Is  suddenly  lit : 


Knowest  thou  not  that  I  long  for  the  strand. 
Infinite  stretches  of  hot  golden  sand 

,     Without  limit  or  bound  ? 
Come,  on  thy  lithe,  sturdy  back  let  me  leap. 
Galloping  fast  as  the  wind,  let  us  sweep. 
Devouring  the  ground. 

Far  from  the  mist  in  the  meadow  below. 
Far  from  humanity,  vulgar  and  low. 

Far,  far  away  flee. 
Break  through  the  tangle  of  thorns  in  the  vale. 
On  at  full  gallop  through  woodland  and  dale  — 

A  king  thou  and  free. 

35 


The  Crushing  the  flowers  where  we  trample  the  ground, 

Aralnan      Leaving  behind  the  abyss,  with  a  bound 
O'er  the  torrent  we  fly. 
Though  long  our  road,  ever  onward  we  must. 
If  even  we  both  should  be  thrown  in  the  dust. 
My  charger  and  I. 

Oh  roseate  flames  of  the  westerly  sky. 

Oh  visions  of  palm-trees,  majestic  and  high. 

Mirage  on  the  sea  ! 
Low  elegies  sweet  of  Arabia,  meseems. 
O'er  the  greenish  horizon,  like  far-away  dreams. 

Are  wafted  to  me. 

Sparks  fly  about  as  we  tear  o'er  the  plain. 
Gallop,  my  Ahmed,  for  naught  can  restrain 

Our  fiery  race. 
Towards  the  unknown,  gallant  charger  of  mine. 
All  I  defy  if  but  freedom  divine 

Blow  full  in  my  face. 


THEE   ALONE 

HERE  —  thee,  and  thee  alone.  —  Oh  let  me. 
Love, 

Upon  thy  throbbing  breast  find  sweet  relief. 
Let  me  pour  out  my  sobs,  so  long  suppressed. 
Tell  all  my  secret  wishes,  all  my  grief  — 

I  long,  I  long  for  tears. 
36 


My  weary  aching  head,  oh  let  me.  Love,  T^" 

Lean  on  thy  shoulder,  find  at  last  repose.  Alone 

As  hides  a  shy  bird  'neath  its  mother's  wing. 
As  droops  upon  its  stem  a  fading  rose  — 

I  long,  I  long  for  peace. 

Upon  thy  youthful  brow,  oh  let  me.  Love, 
With  trembling,  yet  with  fervor,  press  a  kiss. 
And  whisper  in  thine  ear  one  single  word. 
Intoxicated  with  a  moment's  bliss: 

I  long,  I  long  for  love. 


SINITE   PARVULOS 

Oh,  si  vous  rencontrez  quelque  part  sous  les  cieux. 

V.  Hugo. 

WHEN  at  the  crossways  in  some  lonely  wild. 
Or  'mid  the  thoughtless  gay  crowd  in  the 
street. 
With  pallid  face  and  timid  eyes,  you  meet 
A  poor,  forsaken,  solitary  child 

That  mourns  a  mother's  memory,  maybe. 
Most  dear,  most  sacred,  who  must  sorely  miss 
Her  hand  of  guidance,  her  advice,  her  kiss. 
Bring  him  to  me  !     He  '11  be  my  son.     With  me 

I  '11  ever  keep  him,  and  at  eventide 
I  '11  fold  his  little  hands  and  softly  say 
The  prayer  of  my  own  childhood's  brightest  day. 
With  him  and  for  him,  kneeling  by  his  side. 
37 


Sinite  The  word  I  '11  teach  him  that  has  power  to  bless, 

Parvulos     'p^  comfort,  and  to  elevate  ;  always 

I'll  guard  him  jealously  through  nights  and  days 
With  his  dead  mother's  watchful  tenderness. 

That  life  is  work,  I  '11  say,  that  to  forgive 
Means  peace  ;  a  golden  treasure,  none  can  take. 
Of  all  that 's  just  and  great  and  good  I  '11  make 
Within  his  soul.      I  '11  teach  him  how  to  live; 

The  power  of  thought  that  God  Almighty  gave 
To  me,  into  his  mind  I  shall  transfuse ; 
Retired,  colourless  my  life  shall  lose 
Itself  in  his,  flow  tranquil  to  the  grave. 

While,  towards  oblivion  moving,  I  shall  wear 
A  cap  and  spectacles,  he  shall  arise. 
His  hands  at  toil,  on  lofty  aims  his  eyes. 
And  in  his  heart  God's  image  he  shall  bear. 

Forward  to  dawn  confiding  he  shall  go, 
A  vital  wheel  in  the  vast  clockwork  be, 
A  bird  that  soars  into  the  sunlight  he, 
A  plant  that  buddeth  in  the  morning  glow  : 

And  I  shall  die  in  peace.  —  Not  vainly  I 
Have  loved,  not  vainly  suffered.      On  my  grave 
In  faithful  memory  a  soldier  brave, 
A  loving  son,  will  breathe  a  grateful  sigh. 

38 


NENIA    MATERNA 

WHEN  I,  a  happy  baby,  years  ago 
My  head  confiding  on  the  pillow  laid. 
My  mother,  bending  o'er  her  needle  low. 
Long  evenings  near  me  stayed. 

She  sat  and  sang  —  sweet  tones  like  heavenly  balm 
Flowed  from  her  lips  as  of  a  fairy  kind  ; 
Their  faint  remembrance  still  has  power  to  calm 
My  soul,  my  troubled  mind. 

The  long  slow  notes  so  gently  took  their  flight. 
Trembling  with  intimate  sweet  happiness. 
Into  the  darkness  of  the  silent  night. 
As  soft  as  a  caress. 

And  I  was  dreaming.      Angels  from  above 
About  my  cradle  thronged  in  shining  crowds. 
Telling  the  childish  soul  of  infinite  love. 
They  played  'mong  golden  clouds. 


Thou  dost  no  longer  sing.      Around  thee  rage 
Life's  winter  storms.      Now  misery  uncouth 
Laughs  without  pity  at  thy  worn  old  age 
And  at  my  shattered  youth. 

O  mother,  now  thou  dost  no  longer  sing. 
Joys  one  by  one  have  fled,  yet  not  a  word 
'Gainst  cruel  fate  —  nay,  not  a  murmuring 
From  thee  I  ever  heard  ; 
39 


Nenia  But  in  my  heart's  haughty  contempt  profound 

Materna      j  'gaj^st  the  arrows  of  grim  fate  have  hurled 
Defiance  proud,  unlimited,  unbound, 
'Gainst  misery,  'gainst  the  world. 

Still,  when  on  my  austere  and  pallid  brow. 
Beloved  mother,  mute  thy  glances  lie. 
As  if  absorbed  in  bitter  memories,  thou 
Dost  heave  a  timid  sigh. 

Then  sweetest  recollections  of  the  past, 
A  harmony  of  unseen  wings,  drives  me 
Into  thy  tender  arms  to  be  pressed  fast 
Upon  thy  bosom.      See, 

In  twilight's  deepest  hour  of  quietness 
Beneath  thy  loving  glance,  thus  near  thee,  fain 
I  would  forget  that  I  'm  a  poetess. 
And  be  a  child  again. 

That  I  might  hear  once  more,  as  long  ago. 
Those  slow  melodious  songs  that  by  my  side 
Thou,  crooning  o'er  my  peaceflil  cradle  low. 
To  darkness  didst  confide. 

Pressing  a  kiss  on  thy  white  forehead  mild. 
That  grief  and  loving  care  have  furrowed  deep. 
Held  in  thine  arms,  once  more  a  tired  child, 
I  long  to  go  to  sleep. 


40 


IN   THE   HURRICANE 

WHEN  a  grand  thunderstorm  rules  all  around 
And  roars  and  rages  on  with  frantic  might. 
When  -^olus,  a  fury  grim,  unbound. 
Hisses  amid  the  lightning's  livid  light, 

I  in  the  hurricane's  mad  whirling  race. 

Far  from  the  world  apart. 
Would  lose  myself,  quite  lose  myself  in  space. 

Held  thus  close  to  thy  heart. 

In  the  immensity  adrift  with  thee. 

Tell  thee  the  constant  war  that  fills  my  soul. 

The  war  that  thou  dost  not  suspect  in  me 

And  even  God  knoweth  not.     The  thunder's  roll 

Around  me,  the  wild  wind's  tempestuous  roar. 

Tumult  and  darkness  dread. 
Below  me  fright,  destruction,  I  would  soar. 

Upon  thy  heart  my  head. 


LIGHT 


WITH  luminous  splendor 
Pervading  the  air. 
With  colours  most  fair 
Reviving  the  freshness 
Of  all  that  is  green, 
A  glow  never  seen 
Fills  heaven  and  earth. 

Victorious  and  warming,  triumphant  with  mirth. 
41 


Li^  Here  pearls  iridescent 

That  dance  in  the  spray. 
There  butterflies  gay- 
Are  wedding  the  roses. 
With  kisses  of  flowers 
Sweet  pagan  life  showers. 
Around  me,  above. 

The  world,  and    exulting,  all  clamours  with  love  ! 

My  soul  overflooding, 

Hope  swells  to  its  height. 

Of  life  the  delight 

I  feel  in  my  bosom. 

As  swift- winged  swallows 

That  revel  in  space 

In  jubilant  race 

Gay  dreams  fill  the  air  — 

Of  genius  and  light  I  'm  a  blithe  millionaire  ! 

TAKE    ME    AWAY 

TAKE  me  away,  among  the  mountains.  Love, 
Where  shines  the  everlasting  ice,  and  where 
The  eagle  spreads  its  sounding  wings  to  rove 
In  mighty  circles  through  the  deep  blue  air  ; 

Where  mire  covers  not  the  ground ;  where  I 

The  low  world's  hateful  voice  no  longer  hear. 

And  where  I  feel  less  heavily  the  dry 

Hard  cross   that  weighs  me  down  :   to  that  high 

sphere 
^  42 


Take  me  away  !     Up  there  I  will  be  thine  Take  Me 

Amid  the  vigorous  eager  mountain-air.  Away 

'Mong  cyclamens,  beneath  the  fragrant  pine ; 
With  smiles  of  dawn  I  will  caress  thee  there. 

The  plain's  gray  fog  I  can  no  longer  bear. 
Here  in  the  ricefields  poetry  dieth  ;  nay. 
There  'mid  the  Alps'  immortal  silence,  there. 
There  I  will  love  thee.     Oh,  take  me  away  ! 


SO   I   SEE   IT   ONCE    MORE 

SO  I  see  it  once  more,  this  humble  dwelling. 
My  mother's  dear  neat  chambers,  where  one 
day   . 
I  lived  a  child.      Oh,  how  my  heart  was  swelling 
With  hopes,  when,  rich  in  dreams,  I  went  away  ! 
So  I  see  it  once  more,  this  humble  dwelling. 

White  bed  where   once    I    slept   'neath    snowy 

cover. 
My  pretty  knickknacks  and  beloved  flowers. 
Sweet  memories  of  bygone  Aprils  hover 
Among  ye,  speak  of  sunshine  and  of  showers. 
White    bed   where  once    I    slept   'neath    snowy 

cover. 

In  my  dejected  heart  new  hope  arises 
As  on  these  memories  I  ponder,  while 
Faith  in  more  beautiful,  more  glorious  guises 
43 


So  1  See  It  Calls  to  my  lips  a  long-forgotten  smile  — 
Once  More  jjj  ^  dejected  heart  new  hope  arises. 

Mother,  here  in  the  silence,  near  thee  kneeling. 
Caressed  by  thee,  I  feel  a  child  again ; 
Let  me  pour  out  my  heart  to  thee,  revealing 
Its  overwhelming  sadness  and  its  pain. 
Mother,  here  in  the  silence,  near  thee  kneeling. 

Oh,  do  not  leave  me,  do  not  ever  leave  me. 
Sole  comfort,  thou,  of  my  sad  twenty  years  ! 
So  close  to  thee,  O  mother  dear  !   believe  me. 
My  soul  forgets  its  sorrows  and  its  tears. 
Oh  do  not  leave  me,  do  not  ever  leave  me ! 

A  breath  of  peace  is  from  above  descending ; 
Throbbing  with  golden  stars,  the  heavens  glow  ; 
The   wind   is   hushed,   the   flowers  in   sleep   are 

bending. 
In  silence  hushed  is  every  human  woe ; 
A  breath  of  peace  is  from  above  descending. 


STRANA 

ALONG,  slow  shudder  through  the  foliage 
draws  : 
The  wind  relates  a  story  to  the  woods 
That  whisper  and  that  pause. 
44 


"Hush!    Once    upon    a    time" — the    wind    \s  Stratta 

heard  — 
And,  shivering  at  the  gasping  breath,  the  woods 
Listen  to  every  word. 


**  A  wandering  maiden  to  this  forest  came  : 
Her  mouth  was  red,  her  hair  was  tawny  gold. 
And  Strana  was  her  name. 

One  day  she  fell  in  love.      Her  passion's  might 
Was  mad  intoxication,  sweetest  bliss. 
Hot  noonday,  blackest  night. 

And  then  one  day  she  waited  —  but  in  vain. 
Silent,  with  beating  heart,  she  waited  long. 
He  never  came  again. 

And  thus  she  spoke,  bowing  her  weary  head : 
*  What  good  is  there  in  dragging  on  and  on 
My  life,  when  love  is  dead  ? ' 

Among  the  leafy  boughs  a  sigh  arose. 
The  limpid  water  softly  spoke  to  her 
Of  infinite  repose. 

Spoke  of  oblivion  !  —  Like  a  low  lament 
Came  from  above  a  murmur  :   *  All,  all  goes 
When  love  is  gone  and  spent.' 

And,  springing  to  her  feet,  a  flood  she  poured 
Of  curses  out  against  the  faithless  one 
Whom  she  had  once  adored. 
45 


Strana         As  though  intoxicated,  with  a  leap 

She  sprang  into  the  water.     O'er  her  closed 
The  cold,  mysterious  deep." 


Thus  tells  the  wind.     The  night  in  silence  sinks. 
Girded  with  clouds,  upon  the  listening  wood 
That  shudders  while  it  thinks. 

And  lo,  the  wind  arises  gradually. 
Proudly  its  pinions  shaking,  twists  and  turns 
And  rages  furiously. 

It  moans  and  long-drawn  sighs  of  anguish  heaves, 
A  tearful  voice  it  seems,  of  pain  supreme  — 
A  tremor  thrills  the  leaves. 

And  every  bough  with  wild  emotion  throbs. 
Fierce  words  of  wrath  come  whistling  through  the 
air, 

Pantings,  heartrending  sobs  — 

Bound  to  a  memory,  naked,  ghostly  pale. 
The  soul  of  one  departed  whirleth  past 
On  through  the  lonely  dale. 

Among  the  leaves  there  seems  to  sigh  a  breath  : 
**  No,  there  's  no  peace  !  —  The  love  that  glows 
in  life 

Flames  fiercer  yet  in  death." 


46 


WHY 


TWENTY  the  one,   handsome,  with  love 
aglow, 
A  gallant  youth,  full  of  melodious  song. 
From  his  inspired  fervid  lips  there  flow 
Vibrating  words  that  but  to  me  belong. 

Him,  who  in  winged  verse  sublimely  grand 
Describes  the  ecstasies  of  love,  I  see. 
Shy,  trembling  like  a  child,  before  me  stand. 
Vanquished,  subdued,  when  face  to  face  with  me. 

Follies  he  whispers,  kneeling  at  my  feet : 

"  Ah  for  thy  words  of  love  I  would  give  fame. 

With  thee  alone  I  long  to  share  my  lot  —  " 

His  mystic  harmonies  of  art  most  sweet, 
Dreams,  wishes,  smiles,  high  inspiration's  flame 
Are  at  my  feet,  and  yet  —  I  love  him  not ! 

II 

The  other  carries  his  imperious  head 
High  as  the  oak  that  wind  and  rain  defies. 
He  's  silent  —  still  the  poetry  I  have  read 
That  in  his  strong,  his  gentle  being  lies. 

No  word  of  love  he  speaks  to  me  —  maybe 
He  does  not  dare.      His  fiery  eyes  confess 
That  I  am  beautiful,  that  he  loves  me. 
With  a  pathetic,  secret,  sad  caress. 
47 


fVl^y  When  daylight  lingers  on  the  window-panes 

And  on  my  pallid  face  his  eyes  of  fire. 
And  when  he  dares  not  speak,  but  suiFering  sighs. 

Languid  intoxication  thrills  my  veins. 
Into  his  arms  drives  me  a  keen  desire 
As  to  its  feeding-place  the  woodbird  flies. 


CHALLENGE 

OH  thou  licentious  world  of  crafty  burghers 
That  but  for  bill  o'  fare  and  money  cares. 
World  of  coquettes  and  gambling  pleasure-seekers. 
Of  well-fed  millionaires. 

Of  girls  that  go  to  church  to  eye  their  lovers. 
Of  opium  eaters,  world  of  wicked  schemes. 
World  of  adultery  and  of  corruption. 
Of  shattered  hopes  and  dreams. 

Ha,  is  it  thou,  deceiving  world,  that  wouldest 
Shut  out  from  vision  my  ideals'  light. 
That  wouldest  clip  my  pinions,  wretched  coward. 
To  stop  my  upward  flight  ? 

Thou  crawlest  and  I  soar  ;  while  thou  art  yawning, 
I  sing  :   Of  ecstasy  the  magic  fire 
Bums  in  my  soul.      Oh,  I  despise  thee,  sinking 
Deep,  deeper  in  the  mire. 
48 


Be  cursed,  licentious  world  of  geese  and  serpents.  Challenge 
Cursed,  cowardly,  vile  world,  forever  !      I 
Go  forth  to  meet  my  fate,  my  glances  resting 
Upon  the  stars  on  high. 

Thirsting  for  light,  unarmed,  alone  I'm  striving. 
The  more  sordid  and  sceptical  thou  art. 
The  more  sublime  the  word  of  love  prophetic 
Is  bursting  from  my  heart  ! 

Go  in  pursuit  of  courtesans  and  money. 
Go  to  perdition,  on,  at  rapid  pace  : 
Lo,  with  the  lash  of  my  indignant  verses 
I  strike  thee  in  the  face. 


SALVETE 


1  THINK  of  the  brave  champions  of  the  spade 
Who,  in  defiance  of  the  storm  and  sun. 
Wrest  from  the  parched,  the  tormented  glebe 
Their  wretched  bread. 

And  of  th^  champions  of  the  pick  I  think. 
Of  miners  in  the  cursed  dark  below. 
Sinewy  and  haggard  workers  who  toil  on 
And  never  rest. 

A  hollow  echo  rumbles  through  the  mine  — 
With  a  tremendous  crash  the  vault  caves  in. 
And  all  is  dust  and  black  abyss,  long  sighs 
And  groans  and  death  — 
4  49 


Salvete        But  through  the  mighty  mountain's  pierced  breast 
The  glorious  victor  steam  forces  his  way  ; 
Emerging  from  the  gloom,  triumphant  greets 
The  dazzling  sun. 

I  think  of  champions,  leaders  brave  of  thought 
Who    stand   as    martyrs    *mong   the    unknowing 

crowd. 
And,  feverish  care  kindling  their  generous  minds, 
To  battle  call. 

I  think  of  those  who  watch  and  toil  and  die 
Unknown,  and  from  my  heart  bursts  forth. 
Re-echoing  o'er  all  the  earth,  a  cry  : 
Hail,  hail,  ye  strong  ! 


Hail,  hail,  ye  bared,  ye  iron  chests,  ye  arms 
Sturdy  and  muscular,  ye  bodies  lithe 
That  never  tire  amid  the  deafening  din 
Of  factories  : 

Ye  who  with  work's  sacred  ambition  glow 
And  in  the  midst  of  toil  some  day  shall  die. 
Of  thought  and  of  the  mallet,  of  the  axe. 
Brave  champions,  hail  ! 

Before  my  eyes  in  dreadful  visions  pass 
Phantoms  of  working-women  wan  and  worn. 
And  vessels  pass  that  with  the  tempest's  shock 
Sink  in  the  sea  ; 
50 


And  weary  children,  pale  and  furrowed  brows,      Salvete 
Disfigured  faces,  crippled  bodies  thin. 
All,  all  that  infinite  exhausted  crowd. 
In  endless  file. 

I  hear  the  sound  of  voices  from  afar. 
And  blows  of  pickaxe,  hammer,  and  of  club  : 
Amid  the  tumult  vast  that  stirs  the  earth 
I  freely  sing : 

Thee,  thee  I  sing,  great  human  family. 
So  widely  spread,  so  diligent,  so  grand  ! 
Go,  fight  and  hope,  and  without  resting  strive, 
For  life  is  brief. 

On  labour's  contests,  on  the  victors'  heads. 
The  agonies  of  the  defeated,  slain. 
Shines  the  serene,  immortal  gaze  of  God, 
The  glorious  sun. 


HAVE   MERCY! 

TO  thee,  O  Lord,  I  pray. 
Guard  thou  me  in  the  dark. 
'T  is  late.      Far,  far  away 
A  bronze  bell  tolleth  —  hark  ! 
The  night  its  wings  spreads  wide 
Upon  my  knees  I  lie 
Here  by  my  mother's  side  — 
Oh,  do  not  let  her  die  ! 
Have  mercy  ! 

51 


Have  Cold  sweat  stands  on  her  face, 

Mercy .         fjgj.  ^^^^  g^  g^jjj  gj^j  gray. 

O  Lord  of  night  and  space. 
Who  didst  climb  Calvary, 
Who  thine  own  cross  didst  bear, 
A  crown  of  thorns  didst  wear, 
O  Jesus,  hear  my  prayer 
This  precious  life  to  spare  ! 
Have  mercy  ! 


Mercy  !  Her  suffering  see  ! 
Mercy  on  her  who  's  slain  ! 
What  wilt  thou  have  of  me. 
Inexorable  Pain  ? 
Seize  me,  and  cover  thou 
With  woe  and  shame  my  head. 
Carve  on  my  youthful  brow 
Of  grief  the  furrows  dread. 


Oh,  make  my  heart  to  break  ! 
Love,  joy,  and  all  I  *11  give. 
All  but  my  tears,  take,  take  — 
But  let  my  mother  live  ! 
Have  mercy  ! 


52 


GO 


THOU   who    art  handsome,  generous,   and 
strong 
Wouldst  win  my  love  ?  —  Beware  ! 
If  joy  and  hope  unto  thy  fate  belong. 
Wish  not  my  gloomy  path  of  life  to  share. 
Of  peace  and  love  earth  has  an  ample  store: 
Go,  child  !   for  I  am  war. 

Thou  whose  confiding  soul  glows  in  thine  eyes, 
Wouldst  win  my  love  ?  —  Beware  ! 

Kneel  not  imploringly  before  me  !  Rise  ! 

Wish  not  my  gloomy  path  of  life  to  share  ! 

If  fortune  swells  thy  sails  with  hopeful  breath. 
Draw  back  —  for  I  am  death. 

Upon  my  aged  mother's  hoary  head. 

On  mine  that  still  is  brown, 
I  saw  the  tempest  break,  saw  cruel,  dread 
Afflictions,  sorrows  one  by  one  come  down  ; 
Haggard,  exhausted,  clad  in  garments  old, 

I  wept  with  want  and  cold. 

Thus  I  grew  up  in  suffering  and  pain. 

Confiding  it  to  none  ; 
Still  'mid  the  dark  here  in  my  heart  did  reign 
A  mad,  unbridled  craving  for  the  sun. 
I  lived  of  secret  tears  ;  hunger  and  thirst 

I  suffered  and  —  I  cursed. 
53 


Go  When  I  think  of  my  mother  whom  a  slow 

Disease  is  murdering. 
Of  our  hearth,  extinguished  long  ago. 
The  sumptuous  world  where  shouts  of  laughter 

ring, 
A  deathly  hate,  vented  in  many  a  curse. 
Lends  pinions  to  my  verse. 

And  thou  wouldst  win  my  love  ?     Oh,  turn  and 
go. 

Go  and  forget  me,  child  ! 
The  anguish  of  my  soul  thou  dost  not  know. 
That  ne'er  has  peace,  but  glows  in  struggles  wild  ! 
Unloved  and  miserable,  let  me  flee 

Where'er  fate  carries  me. 

To  wastes  of  stones  and  thorns  let  me  retreat 

Till  I  this  life  depart. 
Forever  pressing  on  with  restless  feet, 
A  fever  in  my  blood,  God  in  my  heart. 
Of  peace  and  love  earth  has  an  ample  store  : 

Go,  child  !  for  I  am  war. 


NO 


I  SPOKE  to  him  :   **  I  do  not  love  thee,  no- 
I  never  loved  thee.      I 
Will  not  be  thine,  nor  dead  nor  living  !   Go  !  " 
He  answered  :    "  Thou  dost  lie." 
54 


"If e'er  I  love  thee,"  I  replied  again,  ^o 

**  May  God  undo  me  !     I 
Have  wiped  thee  from  my  heart.      Thy  words  are 
vain." 

He  answered  :   "  Thou  dost  lie." 

**  In  vain,  in  vain,  unhappy  pallid  youth. 

Thou  dost  demand  my  heart. 
My  soul  has  sealed  my  every  word  in  truth." 

He  answered  :   "  Mine  thou  art." 

Moved,  not  defeated,  in  his  face  I  read 

And  spoke  :   **  'T  is  all  in  vain. 
Think  of  thy  fatal  love,  thy  mother  dead. 

Of  me  and  of  my  pain  ; 

Ah,  think  of  God,  who  all  things  hears  and  sees. 

Think  of  thy  cursed  past. 
Rebel  not  against  fate,  spare  me  thy  pleas. 

Let  me  have  peace  at  last. 

Naught    holds    thee   back.       Forget    me  !     Go ! 
Depart  1 

Give  up  besieging  me  ! 
My  memory  even  pluck  from  out  thy  heart  !  " 

He  spoke  :    **  I  want  but  thee." 


Persisting  uselessly,  absorbed  in  this 

Desire,  he  would  not  go. 
Into  his  face  once  and  again  I  hiss : 

"  What  dost  thou  wait  for  ?  —  No  !  " 
55 


APRIL   SONG 

OLOVE,  O  love  !  — I  feel  thy  power  divine 
Throb  in  the  sunlight,  in  the  rivulets. 
In  the  great  gusts  of  vi'ind  that  stir  the  pine. 
In  the  sweet  fragrance,  gentle,  timid,  pure. 
Of  the  first  violets. 


As  warm  and  vital  fluid  thou  dost  hie 
Through  every  shoot ;   soaring  in  rapturous  flight 
Thou  singest  with  the  larks;  o'er  earth  and  sky. 
Audacious  angel,  'mid  a  thousand  motes 
Of  gold,  thou  'rt  sprinkling  light. 


O  love,  O  love,  wherewith  all  nature  rings. 
In  April's  exultation  feel  I  thee; 
Thou  givest  roses  perfume,  winds  their  wings. 
Covering  the  earth  with  kisses  and  with  beams. 
But  thou  art  dead  in  me. 


THE   WORKING   MOTHER 

AMONG  the  shrieking  wheels  of  the  great 
mill 
Where,  'mid  the  din  that  shaketh  the  wide  hall, 

A  thousand  women  all 
Their  vigour  spend,  she  too  is  working  still. 
56 


For  many  a  lustre,  since  she  was  a  child  The 

She  has  been  here.  —  Deftly  her  nervous  hands     %Z^lr^ 

Guide  thread  and  spool.      She  stands 
And  does  not  heed  the  noise,  the  tumult  wild 

That  rages  all  around.     But  sometimes  now 
She  is  so  tired  and  weary,  oh,  so  tired ! 

And  yet,  as  if  inspired. 
Raising  her  head,  she  smoothes  her  careworn  brow. 

She  seems  to  say  :  "  On,  ever  onward  still  !  "  — 
Oh,  misery,  if  one  day  her  strength  should  fail. 

If  she  began  to  ail. 
And  could  no  more  return  her  place  to  fill  ! 

She  must  not  and  she  cannot.  —  For  her  joy. 
Her  one  ambition,  her  one  son,  behind 

Whose  brow  she  has  divined 
The  lofty  flight  of  genius  —  he,  her  boy. 

Is  studying.  —  She  will,  at  any  price. 
For  his  necessities  toil  on  all  day. 
Waste  drop  by  drop  away. 
Offer  herself  a  living  sacrifice. 

As  once  her  youth,  her  old  age  too,  God  knows. 
Trembling  and  frosty,  she  will  give,  her  health 

That  was  her  only  wealth  — 
Oh,  saintly  worker  !  — sweetness  of  repose, 
57 


The  All  she  will  give.      Her  son  shall  study. —  Grand 

M^th^     The  future  time  shall  see  him,  world  renowned 
And  feared,  his  dark  head  crowned 
With  gold  and  laurel  wreaths  at  fortune's  hand  ! 


Son  of  the  people,  study,  silent  sit 
In  the  low  hut  that  in  the  shadow  lies. 

Thou  in  whose  ardent  eyes 
The  mystic  words  of  genius  high  are  writ. 

In  thy  proud  muscles,  in  each  fibre  feel 
The  buoyant  energy,  the  health  that  grace 

A  bold,  undaunted  race. 
Aspire  to  the  heights  with  fearless  ?;eal. 

Thy  mother  for  thy  sake  some  day  will  die  ; 
To  her  intrepid,  fallen  body  throw 

A  kiss,  a  greeting,  go 
To  meet  the  hostile  host  that  draweth  nigh. 

And  with  thy  voice,  thy  pen,  go  forth  to  fight 
And  point  out  to  the  tottering  century 

The  glorious  radiancy 
Of  vast  horizons  bathed  in  a  new  light. 

True,  steadfast,  honest  in  the  noble  strife 
Awaiting  thee,  remember  evermore  : 

Amid  the  great  mill's  roar 
For  this  thy  mother  sacrificed  her  life. 

58 


IT    CANNOT   BE 

WHY  is  it,  when  thy  lips  with  magic  sweet 
Speak  of  thy  wandering  life  to  me,  when  I 
Thy  blue  eyes'  deep,  enamoured  glances  meet. 
Why   do  they   seem  to  suck  my  heart  out  ?  — 

Why  ?  — 
To  kisses  and  dead  dreams  cease  calling  me !  — 
Hush,  no  !  It  cannot  be  ! 

When,  thoughtful  and  absorbed,  I  list  to  thy 
Soft  voice,  vibrating  like  a  harp's  low  strain. 
What  makes  across  thy  face  these  blushes  fly  ? 
What    makes    a    thrill    rush    through    my    every 

vein  ? 
To  kisses  and  dead  dreams  cease  calling  me  !  — 
Hush,  no  !   It  cannot  be  ! 

Another  fate  pursues  my  earthly  lot :  — 
For  me  that  hour  of  bliss  will  never  shine. 
Where  in  delirious  rapture  all  's  forgot 
And  where  a  lover's  lips  shall  speak :   Be  mine. 
A  kiss  upon  my  mouth  so  young  and  pure 
Would  be  misfortune  sure. 

Canst  thou  my  love  imagine  ?  Oh,  it  would 
Be  radiant  light,  of  joy  the  ecstasy. 
The  laugh  of  youth  triumphant,  noble,  good, 
A  hymn  of  hope,  a  song  of  victory  ; 
Of  soul  and  mind,  of  ardent  thought  supreme 
'T  would  be  a  magic  dream. 

59 


//  Cannot    Yet  I  irrevocably  turn  from  thee. 

Rigid  and  chaste,  into  the  night  profound. 
Ask  not  the  why  of  this  strange  mystery 
That  like  a  tyrant  ever  holds  me  bound. 
To  kisses  and  dead  dreams  cease  calling  me ! 
Hush,  no  !     It  cannot  be  !  — 


PHANTOMS 

I  WATCHED  upon  the   shore    the   breaking 
waves  ; 
There  rose,  it  seemed  to  me, 
A  host  of  phantoms  from  their  briny  graves 
From  out  the  treacherous  sea. 


With  streaming  hair,  in  flowing  seaweeds  clad. 

Pallid  and  hollow-eyed 
They  were  ;  no  light  their  glazed  glances  had 
And  in  the  troubled  water  'neath  their  feet 

The  blades  of  knives  I  spied. 

From  their  discoloured,  frothy  lips  a  groan. 

More  pained  than  I  can  tell. 
Came,  mingled  with  the  ocean's  woful  moan. 
Appealing  to  my  heart,  and,  deeply  moved. 

Upon  my  knees  I  fell. 

Dead  forms  they  were  of  victims  who  still  had 

A  dagger  in  their  breast. 
Of  shipwrecked  sailers  and  of  those  who,  mad, 
60 


To   waves   and    fates   had  thrown   their  weary  Phantoms 
lives. 

Thus  hoping  to  find  rest. 

"What  do  men  do  on  earth?"  they  asked  of 
me. 

And  I  replied  :   **  They  weep. 
Hatred  hath  burst  its  chains ;   triumphant,  free. 
Hypocrisy  doth  rule.      Oh,  happier  ye 

Down  in  the  rocky  deep  !  " 

They  said  to  me  :  **  Into  these  haunts  of  peace 

'Mong  waving  weeds  descend. 
To  the  retreats  of  love  where  sufferings  cease. 
Annihilation  only  can  give  rest. 

Come  down  :  —  here  is  the  end." 


As  o'er  the  greenish  phantoms  faintly  gleamed 

The  sunset  on  the  deep. 
To  me  the  ocean  in  the  twilight  seemed 

A  bed  for  quiet  sleep. 


NIGHT  JOURNEY 

WE  start  :  't  is  after  midnight.      The  lazy 
mare  is  slow. 
On  shaky  wheels  the  wagon  is  swaying  to  and 
fro! 

On,  driver,  lash,  lash  on  ! 
6i 


Night  For  us,  sons  of  adventure,  courageous,  gay,  and 

>"'«<>'  bold. 

No  dangers   hath   the  darkness,    no    threats  the 
thickest  wold. 

And  stones  the  road  hath  none. 

All,  all  in  sleep  is  hiding —  on, driver,  lash,  lash  on  ! 

From  out  a  cloud  the  full  moon,  the  old  mali- 
cious spy. 

Upon  the  quiet  valley  keeping  an  evil  eye. 
Peeps,  watching  stealthily. 

The  trees  their   boughs  distorted   to  the    veiled 
heavens  raise 

Like   skeletons    in  prayer   their  ghastly  arms. — 
What  says 

The  vast  immensity? 

From   out  a  cloud  the   cold    moon   is  watching 
stealthily. 

With  fixed  eyes  I  'm  gazing,  spellbound,  erect,  and 
pale. 

With  flowing  hair  ;   I  question  :  **  Abyss,   what 
is  thy  tale  ? ' ' 

—  Hate,  broken  vows  and  lies. 

Hot  prayers  and  maledictions  the  dark  has  swal- 
lowed up, 

Passion's  delirious  kisses,  love's  sweet  and  poisoned 
cup. 

Dreams,  crimes,  and  tearful  sighs. 

Hearken   how    through   the  shadows  a   moan,   a 
shudder  flies. 

62 


Will  o'  the  wisps  are  springing  from  putrid  tombs.  Night 

and  call  :  >«r«o' 

*'  What  is  it  thou  art  seeking  here  by  the  sunken 

wall 

Of  this  our  graveyard  gray  ?  ' ' 
I  know  not;  fate  I  'm  seeking.     Maybe  I  '11  find 

my  grave. 
Maybe  the  night  is  endless  ;  it  matters  not.     I  'm 

brave. 

On,  driver,  lash  away  !  — 

I  fear  ye  not,  ye  spectres  of  yonder  graveyard  gray. 

And    over  space  unbounded  that   in   the  silence 

sleeps. 
As  an  immortal  angel,  mysterious  vigil  keeps 

Undying  human  thought. 
The  silver  clouds  in  heaven,  the  gloomy  earth, 

all  things. 
The  grave  and  the  ideal  despoiling  with  its  wings 
Of  dreams  and  boldness  wrought. 

As  an  immortal  angel  soar  over  ruins,  thought ! 

A    SOUL 

To  Nice  Turri 

GREAT  and   unknown  he  was.      A  breath 
divine 
Of  genius  once  had  kissed  his  brow.      And  he 
Grew  up  in  realms  of  dream 

63 


A  Smtl        And  thought ;  handsome  and  good. 

Of  noble  birth,  a  poet  grand  and  free. 
He  lived,  but  not  by  many  understood. 

In  superhuman  fervid  speech,  of  things 

The  mystic  harmony,  the  stars  above. 

The  light  spoke  unto  him.  — 

He  who  had  never  sighed 

For  glory's  laurel  wreath  implored  for  love 

Another  soul.  —  In  vain.  —  It  was  denied. 

Great  and  unknown,  he  died  !  —  In  solitude. 

In  darkness  drear,  he  died.  —  The  light  of  day 

Laughs  o'er  his  longed-for  grave  ; 

Far  off  a  song  is  heard, 

'Mid  nature's  green  resplendent  majesty 

Dying  away,  as  of  a  fleeing  bird  ; 

And  the  defeated  matter  down  below. 

Decaying  in  the  coffin,  turns  again 

Unto  the  fertile  earth.  — 

What  —  poet,  answer  me  !  — • 

Of  thy  sad,  stirring  poetry  doth  remain  ? 

What  of  thy  lofty  genius,  what  of  thee  ? 


Thou  who  didst  drink  the  sun's  celestial  flood. 
Thou  only  who  didst  love,  thou  art  not  gone. 
Thou  who  with  fire  divine 
Of  genius  wert  alive. 

Bleeding,  yet  never  vanquished,  thou  alone, 
O  unknown  virile  soul,  thou  dost  survive  ! 
64 


When  all  is  hushed,  when  in  the  silence  floats        ^  Soul 

A  breath  of  love  untold  through  space  on  high. 

When  on  the  slumbering  flower 

A  kiss  from  heaven  doth  sink. 

Yea  —  in  that  kiss,  in  that  angelic  sigh. 

Thou  art  still  living,  thou  dost  see  and  think. 

When  threatening  clouds  amass,  when,  furiously 

Striving,  the  unchained  winds  the  branches  bow. 

When  flaming  flashes  bright 

Light  up  the  vaulted  sky. 

Yea  —  in  the  tempest,  wrapt  in  memories,  thou. 

Suffering  and  moaning  low,  art  soaring  by. 

When,  vanishing  into  the  limpid  air, 

A  woman's  song  doth  to  the  stars  arise. 

And,  telling  of  caress. 

Desire  and  passion  strong. 

In  the  inspired  rhythm  throbs  and  sighs. 

Vibrating  soul,  thou  tremblest  in  that  song. 

As  long  as  o'er  the  stream  the  willows  wave. 

As  long  as  roses  blow,  as  long  as  yearn 

For  kisses  longing  lips. 

And  thirsty  flowers  for  dew. 

As  long  as  love,  the  Phoebian  spark,  doth  burn. 

Enlivening  all  creation  ever  new  : 

In  lilies'  sweet  communing,  in  the  rays 
Of  tremulous  white  stars,  deep  in  the  sea. 
In  dazzling  noonday-glow, 
5  65 


A  Soul        In  the  vast  mystery 

Of  cosmos,  borne  on  breezes  free. 
Thou,  poet  soul,  shalt  live  eternally. 


DROUGHT 

THE  sun  burns.      Golden  atoms 
Are  shining  in  the  air. 
Immobile  and  deserted. 
The  plain  is  hidden  quite 
In  dust  and  dazzling  light 
And  glare. 

The  drought  inexorable 
Weighs  on  it  all  like  lead. 
The  weary  earth  in  sadness. 
As  a  great  whited  tomb. 
Lies,  waiting  for  its  doom. 
As  dead. 

Hush  —  as  a  dreaming  maiden 
Who  for  love's  waking  sighs, 
A  wilted  rose  in  silence. 
Scorched  by  the  cruel  glow. 
Its  chalice  boweth  low 
And  dies. 

This  agony  invoketh 
Dew  for  the  soil  and  rain  ; 
For  him  who  toils  and  suffers 
66 


Alone,  one  hour  of  bliss.  Drought 

The  sweetness  of  one  kiss  — 
In  vain. 

Oblivion  all  and  quiet ; 
Burned  is  the  parched  sod. 
And  o'er  the  earth,  unswerving. 
In  grave  solemnity. 
In  anger  terribly 

Rules  God. 


THOU   WOULDEST   KNOW 

THOU  wouldest  know,  child,  who  I  am  ? 
Well,  hear  : 
I  am  a  bird,  caught  in  a  cursed  cage  ; 
With  mighty  wings  within  this  prison  drear, 
I  crave  the  starry  heavens,  flashing  clear ; 
Enchained,  I  suffer  and  I  madly  rage. 
Stay,  fair-haired  child,  and  hear. 

Gay  fancies  of  wild  flowers  fill  my  dreams. 
Deep  in  the  shady  woods,  where  towering  stand 
Gigantic  aged  trees  by  murmuring  streams ; 
The  lions'  hot  delirious  love,  where  gleams 
The  tropic  sand  ;  the  whirling  tempest  and 
Loud  thunder,  dazzling  beams. 

At  times,  when  striving  passionately  to  be 
Loosed  from  these  hateful  bonds,  I  curse  and  cry  ; 
The  vain  world  laughs  and  listens  not  to  me, 
67 


Thou  And  I,  in  furious  struggle  to  be  free, 

WouW    - 
Know 


Wouldest     Breajj  'gainst  the  bars  my  wings  ;  the  world  goes 


by 

And  listens  not  to  me. 

Oh,  who  will  burst  of  this  captivity 

The  iron  chains  ?     Who  '11  give   me   space  and 

light, 
Unlock  the  door,  and  let  me  joyously 
—  Delirious  with  the  sunlight's  ecstasy. 
Intoxicated  —  soar  in  unbound  flight  ?  — 
Or  Death  —  or  Liberty  ! 


COME   TO   THE   FIELDS 

COME    to   the    fields    with    me,   to    verdant 
bowers. 
Where  dewdrops  on  my  silken  sandals  shine  ; 
This  radiant  morning  all  the  sweet  wild  flowers 

I  will  go  out  to  seek  — 
Come  to  the  woods  with  me,  but,  poet  mine, 
Of  love  thou  must  not  speak  ! 

A  swallow  blithe  the  rosy  heaven  cleaves. 
In  grass  and  moss  insects  are  flashing  bright. 
Sparkling  as  diamonds  the  dewy  leaves  ; 

New  life  revives  the  plain  ; 
Behold,  what  magic,  what  a  feast,  what  light !  — 

God  liveth  not  in  vain! 
68 


—  Speak  not  of  love  to  me  !  —  Of  all  this  glow      Come  to 
Our  soul  is  but  a  pale  mirage.      Behold  Fields 

The  flaming  flood  that  makes  all  things  to  grow 

And  to  new  life  gives  birth! 
Doth  not  the  sun  exultingly  enfold 

With  potent  love  the  earth  ? 

Thou  canst  not  give  me  this  immortal  kiss. 
— Made  up  of  weakness  and  of  jealousy. 
Dark  clouds  and  winter-roses,  what  is  this 

Thy  feverish,  timid  love 
Compared  to  nature's  glorious  harmony 

Around  me  and  above  ? 


I  want,  I  want  the  fields'  unbounded  space. 
Where  throbbing  germs  spring  up  and  flowers  blow  ; 
I  want,  I  want  as  a  young  colt  to  race 

Through  meadows,  lithe  and  free  ; 
I  want  the  rainbow's  colours  all  aglow. 

The  fathoms  of  the  sea  ! 


The  grasses  trample  down,  the  boughs  despoil. 
Delight  in  liberty,  taste  all  its  charms. 
And  plant  my  foot  upon  the  virgin  soil 

Of  towering  mountains  steep  ; 
As  a  Sultana,  held  by  kingly  arms. 

Go  in  the  sun  to  sleep. 


69 


DEEP  IN   THE   DUSKY   WOODS 

DEEP  in  the  dusky  woods 
Rages  a  demon  wild. 
Laughing  he  dashes  on, 
Bendeth  the  oaks  and  breaks 
Flowers  and  all  ; 
Threateningly  clouds  on  high 
Rise  at  his  call. 

Deep  in  the  dusky  woods 
Mocking  a  demon  laughs. 

Lo,  the  whole  forest  dense 

Stirreth  with  life  anew. 

Writhing  convulsively  ; 

Lo,  the  whole  universe 

Trembles  and  sighs. 

Panting  with  magic  speech, 

"  Fate  —  fate  !  "  it  cries. 
Writhing  convulsively, 
Lo,  the  whole  forest  sways. 

Listen,  the  tempest  tells 

Wonderful  stories  of 

Revels  adulterous. 

Tells  of  God's  punishment. 

Tears'  bitter  maze. 

Crimes  and  mysterious  deeds. 

Done  in  old  days. 

Listen,  the  tempest  tells 
Stories  of  love  and  tears. 
70 


Take  me  and  carry  me,  ^"P  '« 

Spirit  malevolent,  ''^^^-*>' 

On  thine  unbridled  wings 

Strong  and  unfearingly. 

Through  clouds  and  lightnings  and 

Darkness  on  high. 

Carry  me  far  away. 

Light  as  a  delicate 

Roseleaf  to  fly  — 

High,  ever  higher  still  into  the  sky  ! 


THE   CASCADE 

TELL  me,  from  what  lofty  sources  dost  thou 
spring, 
O  impetuous  cascade  ?  — 
Leaping  boldly  down  the  dangerous  mountain  glade. 

Rushing  onward  to  the  seas. 
Foaming,   shining,  laughing,   dashing,   none    can 
stay  thee 

In  thy  course  of  centuries. 

Tell  me,  from  what  lofty  sources  dost  thou  spring, 
Overflowing,  brilliant  thought  ?  — 

E'er  with  parched  lips,  exhausted,  overwrought. 
Drinks  at  thee  humanity. 

Thou  a  mirror  to  the  sun,  and  none  can  stay  thee 
Throughout  vast  eternity. 


71 


MISTICA 

SHE  loved  the  solitude  of  Gothic  naves. 
Their  sweet,  mysterious  haze. 
The  altar  candles'  dimly  flickering  rays. 
Her  rosary,  its  round  of  mystic  ways. 

Her  prayers  turned  on  future  suffering. 

Of  unknown  woe  she  dreamed  ; 
She  knew  it  not,  but  lily-like  she  seemed. 
Of  ether,  not  of  flesh  and  blood  she  seemed. 

One  evening,  'neath  the  shadow  of  an  arch, 

A  gaze  toward  her  turned  ; 
She  deeply  bowed  her  head  and  never  turned. 
But  in  her  veins  a  thrill  like  fire  burned. 

Another  evening  in  the  empty  church 

She  met  that  fervid  face. 
It  promised  paradise  and  hell's  disgrace; 
Vanquished,  her  heart  beat  fast  in  the  embrace. 

"I  love  thee,"  breathed  a  voice  upon  her  lips. 

Her  tears  rose  as  a  tide  — 
In  heaven  on  high  an  angel  sorrowing  sighed  ; 
A  light  upon  the  altar  fell  and  died. 

HAST   THOU    BEEN   WORKING  ? 

SO  thou  dost  love  me.      This  thou  hast  con- 
fessed ;  and  now 
Trembling  and  silent  thou  dost  wait.     I  see 
Thy  cheek  turn  pale  in  truth. 
72 


Working  ? 


Thou  wouldest  have  a  kiss,  a  smile  from  me,  ^^^(  Thou 

Thou    wouldest   have    the    flower    of  my    fresh  "^^^ 
youth ! 

But    tell    me :    dost   thou   know    what    suffering 

means  ?     Dost  know 
What  an  ideal's  never  ebbing  flood. 

Its  anguish  and  its  strife  ? 
What  profits  thee  thy  strength,  thy  buoyant  blood. 
Thy  mind,  thy  soul,  thy  breath  —  thy  very  life  ? 

Hast  thou  been  working  ?     Knowest  thou  long, 

sleepless  nights. 
Watched  through  in  manly  thought,  upon  some 

great. 

Some  earnest  work  intent  ? 
And  to  what  banner  didst  thou  consecrate 
Thy  blooming  youth  ?    Speak,  was  it  nobly  spent  ? 

Thou    dost    not    answer    me  —  away    then,    go, 

return 
To  idle  hours,  wasted  in  glittering  halls 

Of  luxury  !      Depart  ! 
Back  to  thy  courtesans,  to  cards  and  balls. 
I  do  not  sell  my  kisses  and  my  heart. 

Oh,  if  thou  wert  exhausted,  weary,  and  in  rags. 
But  with  the  pride  of  work  thy  face  inspired. 

Lit  by  a  spark  of  light. 
And  were  thine  arms  with  honest  labour  tired, 
Yet  in  thine  eyes  a  flash  were  glowing  bright, 
73 


Hast  Thou  And  if  thou  wert  plebeian,  if  above  the  crowd, 
IVorkinp  ?  ^°°'^  cowards,  worn,  unnerved  by  pleasures  vain. 
Thy  lofty  brow  didst  raise. 

If  in  thy  vigorous,  untiring  brain 

There  nobly  burned  of  thought  the  fever-blaze : 


Then  I  would  love  thee,  yes! — I'd  love  thee 

for  thy  life 
Of  strenuous  work,  for  having  done  thy  best. 

And,  gentle  as  a  dove, 
I  fain  would  lean  my  head  upon  thy  breast. 
With  reverence  strong,  pale  with  admiring  love ! 


But  who  art  thou  ?  —  What  dost  thou  hope  of 

me  ?     Step  back. 
Slave,  languishing  'mid  gilded  foulness  low. 

Thou  never  canst  assuage 
My    great    contempt  —  go  —  I    despise    thee  — 


go 


Thou  libertine  !   weak  son  of  a  weak  age. 


TO   MARIE   BASHKIRTSEFF 


A 


S  to  the  canvas  large  mine  eyes  I  raise. 
Thine  own  attract  me  as  a  deep  abyss. 
With  magic,  fixed  gaze. 

74 


Crowned  by  a  wavy  mass  of  golden  hair.  To  Marie 

Thy  rosy  nostrils  quivering  nervously,  fjg- 

Thou  art  so  white  and  fair. 


The  firm  lips  say :   "  My  thought,  my  will,  my 

own  ;  " 
The  brow  that  ne'er  was  bowed,  says:  *'\  was 

born 

For  laurel  wreath  and  throne." 

That  thou  art  dead,  blond  Slav,  say,  is  it  true. 
Who  from  Poltawa's  ice  didst  bring  to  us 
A  wealth  of  genius  new. 

Who  from  the  silence  of  the  snow  didst  burst 
As  a  pale  rose,  who  didst  for  glory  crave 
With  a  consuming  thirst  ? 

Thine  is  the  war  of  genius  with  the  powers 
Unknown,  and  thine  the  fancy  that  corrodes 
All  and  itself  devours ; 

Thine  is  the  melody  that  ever  rings 
With  curses  and  with  sobs,  that  writhing  speaks 
In  the  pulsating  strings  ; 

Thine  is  the  canvas  where  each  colour-spot 
Becomes  or  joy  or  pain,  flesh,  sun  or  soul. 
Never  to  be  forgot. 

75 


To  Marie    What  triumph  great  of  life,  what  daring  scope, 
Bashktrt-     What  greatness,  what  a  future  lay  in  thee ! 
"^  And  what  a  breath  of  hope  ! 

O  flower  that  from  the  snowy  steppe  didst  rise. 
Thy  fresh  stalk,  straight  and  verdant,  did  implore 
The  desert's  endless  skies. 

O  delicate  patrician,  thou  didst  sigh 
For  freedom  of  the  woods,  for  foaming  seas. 
For  Alpine  pine-trees  high. 

Now  what  remains  of  thee,  O  valiant,  brave 
Daughter  of  Art?  —  An  iron  coffin  dread. 
Hid  in  a  gloomy  grave : 

A  cross,  exposed  to  all  the  winds  ;  beneath. 
Within  the  coffin,  'mong  the  worms,  thy  skull. 
That  grins  and  shows  its  teeth. 


No  more  ?  —  Infinite  calm  oppresses  me. 
*Tis  night.  —  Upon  the  canvas  rest  mine  eyes. 
Blond  Slav,  intent  on  thee. 

Thy  changing  glances  hold  me  bound ;   a  part 
Of  thee,  a  something  enters  into  me 
And  poisons  all  my  heart. 

A  keen,  electric  current  through  me  thrills. 
That,  emanating  from  thy  royal  form. 
My  soul,  my  body  fills. 
76 


I  am  possessed  by  thee.     The  breath  of  fire  To  Marie 

That  undermined  thy  hfe,  for  the  unknown  ^eff^^''^ 

The  hammering  desire 

I  feel,  the  power  that  creating  wrought. 
Innate  in  thee,  pulsating  in  my  brain. 
The  whirling  maze  of  thought. 

Far  off  I  see  a  circling  ghost:  'tis  death  ; 
Gazing  at  me,  it  draweth  near  ;  I '  m  seized, 
I  feel  its  icy  breath  ; 

All  is  dissolved  to  naught.      The  raven  croaks. 
Feasting  on  what  was  I :  inverted,  spent. 
The  torch  extinguished  smokes. 

So  naught  remains  of  us,  not  e'en  a  spark?  — 
The  cry  of  anguish  of  a  wind-swept  soul 
I  hurl  into  the  dark ; 

The  earth  knows  not,  God  will  not  answer  me  — 
The  sigh  is  lost  in  space,  as  when  ye  thrust 
A  stone  into  the  sea. 

But  while  thy  skull  in  the  black  earth  beneath 
Grins  at  the  doubts  of  the  unknowing  crowd, 
Showing  its  sharp  white  teeth. 

All  through  my  being  that  live  spark  of  thine. 
Thy  spirit,  all  through  me  who  soon  shall  die. 
Doth  flicker,  glow,  and  shine. 
77 


ON   HIGH 


DREAM.  —  And  lo,  before  my  wandering 


X     eyes 

There  passes  by  a  great  fantastic  throng ; 
All  wrapt  in  ruddy  light,  they  move  along 
Against  the  June  day's  lingering  sunset  skies  : 


Wan,  haggard  faces,  under  crowns  of  thorn  ; 
Heads,  bowed  'neath  dust  and  ashes  ;  eyes  that 

shine 
As  stars  from  heaven  with  light  of  love  divine  ; 
And  bodies  thin,  by  inward  ills  outworn. 


And  I  demanded :   **  Tell  me,  who  are  ye 
Who,  beckoning  to  me,  smiling,  past  me  go. 
Silent  and  beaming  in  the  glorious  glow 
Of  yonder  setting  sun  ? "  —  "  The  heroes  we. 


We  are  the  tragic,  the  inspired  host 

That  on  the  battlefields,  the  barricades, 

'Mid  ringing,  fervent  hymns  and  clashing  blades. 

Offering  our  breasts  to  death,  gave  up  the  ghost. 


Lo,  the  ill-fated  heroes  we  of  thought, 
Th'  exhausted  phalanx  we  who,  still  unbent. 
Our  lives  in  strenuous  endeavours  spent. 
In  futile  search  of  truth,  unflinching  fought. 
78 


Soldiers  and  martyrs  we  with  iron  will  :  On  High 

Strife,  sacrifice,  and  shame  were  our  reward. 
Our  brows  rent  open  by  the  hostile  sword. 
And  yet  we  sobbed  in  falling  :  Forward  still ! 

By  an  infuriated  mob  to  be 

Insulted,  stoned,  and  mocked  on  every  side. 

We  lived  but  to  be  tortured,  crucified  ; 

We  had  no  rest,  no  home  !  — The  heroes  we." 

I  rose  and  cried:  Oh,  why  so  many  sighs  ? 
Why  so  much  pain,  so  many  a  broken  life  ? 
Why  so  much  suffering  and  so  much  strife  ? 
Why  an  unending  round  of  ceaseless  cries  ? 

Why  ardent  after  an  ideal  rove 
That  as  a  flash  appeareth  but  to  flee  ? 
Why  should  the  soul  in  tears  and  weeping  be 
Consumed  with  vain  desire,  delusion,  love  ?  — 

Oh,  why  ?  —  And  still  before  my  dreaming  eyes 
There  passes  by  that  great  fantastic  throng. 
All  wrapt  in  ruddy  light,  moving  along 
Against  the  June  day's  lingering  sunset  skies  ; 

A  calm  that  is  not  of  this  earth  doth  lie 
Upon  their  radiant  faces,  and  they  raise 
Their  great  dilated  eyes  in  rapturous  'maze. 
And,  smiling,  upward  point  to  heaven  on  high. 


79 


ALONE 


'1%  yrlD  melancholy  ashen  veils  of  mist 
J_VJ.The  lone  autumnal  vesper-hour  fades 
From  livid  skies  on  verdant  solitudes 
Descend  the  deepening  shades. 

The  leaves  are  falling,  borne  in  golden  whirls 
Upon  the  wind's  cold  pinions  as  dead  dreams. 
A  shudder  passes  through  the  dusky  air, 
A  bygone  kiss  it  seems. 

Upon  her  soft  tossed  hair  there  languishes 
A  pale  last  violet,  wilted  and  gone. 
She  gazes  down  on  the  bare  sycamores, 
A  statue,  mute  —  alone. 

She  gazes  down  ;  of  snowy  cradles  thinks. 
Where  placidly  the  smiling  babies  sleep. 
And,  their  fair  heads  pressed  on  the  linen  white. 
Are  wrapt  in  slumber  deep. 

The  mothers  watch,  and  in  the  tender  dark. 
Like  lovely  voices  of  the  heavenly  band 
To  make  the  angels'  sleep  more  sweet,  they  sing 
Long  songs  serene  and  bland. 

Deep  in  the  quiet  woods  the  little  bird 
Draws  closer  to  its  mate  in  the  warm  nest. 
And  thus  it  goes  to  sleep  —  no  breath 's  astir. 
The  wind  has  gone  to  rest. 
80 


The  last  pale  blossom  bows  its  rosy  cup.  Alone 

Shivering  beneath  the  mist  that  lies  above 
The  barren  land,  upon  the  grass  a  kiss 
Lays  —  and  that  kiss  is  love. 

Oh,  bliss  !  —  she  dreams.      Absorbed  in   happy 

thought. 
Beside  a  white,  beloved  little  bed. 
By  lamplight  o'er  her  busy  needle  bent 
Her  beautiful  dark  head  ; 

Whilst  he  with  his  strong  arms  tries  to  enfold 
Her  slender  form,  so  supple,  chaste,  and  fair. 
She  whispers  to  him  with  a  shy  caress  : 
'*  The  baby  sleeps  —  beware  !  " 

Oh,  vain  cry  of  the  heart,  illusions  dear. 

Bright    visions    of  gay    smiles,  of  love's    young 

bloom. 
Ye  die  away  beneath  the  sycamores 
In  twilight's  misty  gloom. 

A  leaf,  dropped  off  the  bough,  a  secret  tear. 
From  out  her  heart  her  last  fond  hope  is  gone  ; 
O  nests,  O  flowers,  O  kisses,  snowy  beds. 
Ye  fade.  —  She  is  alone. 

And  with  the  ravens'  distant  doleful  cry 
Into  her  soul  sinks,  on  the  woods  below. 
The  nebulous,  autumnal  vesper-hour. 

Inexorable,  slow  ; 

6  8i 


Alone  It  sinks.  —  Like  a  Greek  statue  proud  she  stands. 

Up  to  the  leaden  sky  her  glances  soar; 
A  shudder  sighs  in  the  November  wind 
And  whispers :  "Nevermore  !  " 


SPES 


WHEN  cruel  suffering  mercilessly  brings 
To  us  its  wild  dismay. 
The  soul  unfoldeth  its  resplendent  wings 
And  flies  away. 

A  wounded  eagle  proud,  to  ice  and  snow 

On  lofty  heights  to  soar. 
Where,  bathed  in  light,  the  summit  does  not  know 

The  tempest's  roar. 

While  the  rebellious  soul  on  mountains  steep 

Rails  cursing,  high  above, 
A  gentle  voice  is  pleading  from  the  deep  : 

'*  Love  —  love  —  oh,  love  !  " 


THE   WIDOW 

OH,  sorrowing  widow,  thou,  without  com- 
plaint. 
Dost  in  the  smoky  hovel  damp  and  low 
Sit  by  thy  son  who  lies  there  ill  and  faint. 
And  without  respite  thou  dost  sew  and  sew. 

82 


On  thy  pale  countenance,  tired  and  worn,  The 

A  world  of  suffering  has  left  its  trace  ;  IVtaow 

Thy  cross  in  honest  patience  thou  hast  borne  : 
Would  I  might  press  a  kiss  upon  thy  face  ! 

There  glows  a  bright  geranium,  scarlet,  fair. 
Before  thy  window  on  the  narrow  sill. 
Fate  weighs  thee  down,  yet  thou  dost  not  despair  ; 
Much  hast  thou  wept,  yet  thou  art  hoping  still. 

Oh,  let  me  kneel  here,  let  me  learn  from  thee 
To  be  resigned,  forgiving,  as  thou  art. 
Who  knowest  not  what  hate  and  envy  be  ! 
Oh,  bless  thou  me,  most  true  and  noble  heart ! 

Never  more  touching  and  more  sweet  than  here 
Came  back  to  me  my  mother's  memory. 
Never  more  grand  did  to  my  soul  appear 
Pain's  padent  dignity. 


THE   FADED    ROSE 

SHE  loved  too  much,  maybe  ; 
Weary,  she's  resting  now. 
Maybe  she  suffered  much  ; 
Now,  with  a  tremor,  she. 
Drooping  upon  her  stem. 
Her  aching  head  doth  bow. 
83 


The  Faded  Maybe  she  suffers  still  : 
^"^  Life's  loathing  made  her  fade. 

Or  death's  delirious  pang 
With  agony  doth  fill 
Her  pallid,  withered  cup  — 
Maybe  she  was  betrayed. 

I  know  not  what  strange  tales 
Relate  the  falling  shades. 
The  penetrating  balm 
Which  the  dead  rose  exhales. 
The  solitary  room 
Which  deepening  dusk  invades. 

The  soul  of  one  unknown 

Is  fluttering  around  : 

I  hear  it  as  a  kiss 

That  into  space  has  flown, 

A  mystery  of  light 

And  shade,  that  holds  me  bound. 

And  with  a  new  desire 

My  soul,  my  being  sways : 

To  feel  a  burning  kiss. 

To  pass  through  torment's  fire. 

The  maze  of  triumph  wild. 

Of  thrilling  pain  the  maze. 

Hark  1  —  evening  bells  ring  clear 
From  yonder  church  above. 
O  flower  sad,  despoiled, 
84 


Consumed  by  passion,  hear  ::  The  Faded 

I  do  not  wish  to  die  ^°" 

Ere  I  have  tasted  love. 


DEFORMED 

HEAR  me,  kind  Sir.  — Down  in  the  harbour, 
wild. 
With  roaring  voice  raves  the  tumultuous  sea. 

Did  you  not  look  at  me  ? 
A  demon's  horrid  laugh  engendered  me, 
A  fury's  monstrous  child. 

The  sea's  immortal  dreariness  untold 

Doth  mingle  with  my  pain,  one  constant  sigh. 

Oh,  pity  me,  for  I 
Am  friendless  and  alone,  I  have  no  mate. 

No  sons ;  my  hearth  is  cold. 

One  day  I  also,  understand  me.  Sir, 
I  also  sought  a  flashing  star  that  might 

Light  up  my  gloomy  night. 
I  found  a  splendid  vagrant  gipsy  and 

Received  and  worshipped  her. 

She  lied,  I  knew  it  ;   still  I  loved  her  —  nay. 
When  on  her  statuesque  white  marble  breast. 

Trying  to  find  a  rest, 
I  laid  my  hideous  face,  my  heart  would  thrill 

And,  vanquished,  melt  away  !  — 
85 


Deformed   She  cared  not,  and  I  was  with  jealousy 
Ferocious,  uncontrollable,  consumed. 

Of  her  red  mouth  that  bloomed 
Like  roses,  of  her  hair,  her  bosom  veiled. 

Her  laughing  gaiety  ! 

She  left  me.  Sir,  to  seek  life's  glowing  charms. 
Dawn,  May  and  beauty  !  —  I  did  not  pursue 

The  faithless  one.      I  do 
After  her  vanished  shape  —  I,  vile,  deformed. 

Despised  —  still  stretch  my  arms. 

Oh  that  I  might  tear  down  with  daring  hand 
The  portals  of  my  cursed  life  and  drear  ! 

But  death  fills  me  with  fear ; 
My  cowardly,  weak  soul  shrinks  back  before 

The  void,  the  unknown  land. 

How  by  the  foaming  waves'  uproarious  swell 
The  shore  is  shaken  and  the  air  is  stirred  !  — 

No  living  soul  is  heard  ; 
This  night  resembles  quite  my  gloomy  fate. 

And  now.  Sir,  fare  ye  well. 


VOICE   OF  THE   DARKNESS 

To  Raffaello  Barbiera 

CHILL,  icy  solitude.  —  The  darkness  drear 
Has  caught  me  in  its  snare. 
Black  clouds  arise,  I  tarry  without  tear 
86 


As  if  elate  with  frenzy.  —  Oh,  cold  air.  Voice 

Cold  air  of  even,  fraught  with  agony,  ^    f 

I  pray  thee,  speak  to  me  ! 

And  hark  !  it  speaks.      With  forest  voices  speaks 

In  tones  of  mystery 
That  sound  like  wrestling  spirits'  piercing  shrieks. 
That  make  the  woodlands  sway.      It  says  to  me : 
"  What  art  thou  doing  in  this  lonely  glade. 

Wild,  vagrant  gipsy -maid  ? 

Dost  seek  oblivion  here  ?     Or  wouldest  thou 

By  cruel  winds  be  lashed  ? 
And  is  there  naught  to  daunt  thy  fearless  brow. 
That  thou  dost  brave  the  dark,  thus  unabashed  ? 
What  race  is  thine  that  dusky  veils  of  night 

Haunt  not  thy  soul  with  fright  ? 

Born  'neath  the  glorious  flames  of  breaking  morn. 

Beneath  the  eagle's  flight. 
Upon  the  Orient's  golden  deserts  born. 
Beneath  the  Eastern  sunshine's  scorching  light, 
'Mid  cynic  blasphemies,  religions  weak  — 

Dost  an  ideal  seek  ? 

But  lo,  thy  pulses  binds  an  iron  chain. 

Cold  mist  surroundeth  thee. 
Thy  life  is  poisoned,  undermined  by  vain 
Desire,  consuming  thee.      And  oh,  I  see 
Fate,  hounding  thee  to  an  untimely  grave, 

A  rebel  thou  and  slave. 
87 


Voice  Brave  daughter  thou  of  pain  and  misery,  still 

"f  ^^'  Thou  shalt  undauntedly 

Fight  the  good  fight.      Thy  verse,  unbridled,  will 

Be  thunderbolt  and  cry  of  agony. 

*Mid  thorns  of  poignant  suffering  thou  shalt  rove. 
Singing  the  praise  of  love. 

Thou  shalt  wade  through  the  mire,  but  towards 
the  light 

Raise  up  thy  ravished  gaze. 
Seeking  of  thought  the  splendid  visions  bright 
Upon  their  infinite  mysterious  ways  : 
Thou  shalt  go  forth,  with  virile  power  replete. 

E'en  greater  in  defeat." 


Thus  speaks  to  me  the  dark  —  and  thoughtfully 

My  soul  is  listening.      Lo, 
The  shady  woods  are  full  of  mystery. 
Of  tearful  voices,  of  the  lightnings' glow  : 
But  of  a  God  serene,  more  strong  than  death. 

Lives  in  my  heart  a  breath. 


THE   MARK   ON   THY   BROW 

A  YOUNG  strange  woman  came,  all  clad  in 
red. 
And,    laughing,    with     her    finger    touched    my 
brow. 

A  shudder  through  me  sped. 


She  spoke  :  "  Thou  bearest  on  thy  brow  a  mark,  Tht  Mark 
Deeply  carved  in,  shaped  like  a  curious  cross,         '^Z'-'' 
Upon  thy  brow  that  mark. 

Thou   ne'er   shalt   be    without   it    through   the 

flight 
Of  changing  years  as  fortune's  wheel  rolls  on. 
For  'tis  a  vampire's  bite. 

He  of  thy  life  is  sucking  the  best  part 
With  wild  avidity,  thy  fiery  blood. 
That  vampire  dread  is  Art. 

How  many  a,  many  a  night  has  he  not  hied 
Unto  thy  pillow's  wakeful  sohtude. 
Famished  and  eager-eyed ! 

Hadst  thou  been  born  in  god  Apollo's  time  ! 
But  in  this  mercenary  century 
Great  genius  is  a  crime. 

Go,  bare  thy  bleeding  heart  and  let  them  see 
Its  open  wounds  in  overwhelming  verse  ; 
They  will  but  laugh  at  thee. 

And,  rich  in  golden  youth,  healthy  and  gay. 
Sing  out  a  hymn  of  love  ;  fantastic  thou 
And  crazy,  they  will  say. 

As  wolves  their  prey,  critics  and  sophists  will 
Pursue  thee,  tear  thee  up  with  insult  vain. 
Fight  o'  er  the  pieces  still ; 
89 


The  Mark   But  vainly  thou  shalt  wish  to  wipe  away 
on  thy  rpj^^j.    j^^j.j^  ,      ^j^g    gp^j.j^     ^f    thought     is 

quenched. 

No,  not  for  ever  and  aye." 


'T  is  thus  she  spoke.     Haughty,  in  vesture  red. 
Erect  before  me.  Fate  she  seemed  to  be. 
—  And  I  inclined  my  head. 

PROPHECY 

THE  evening  gathers  all  its  shadows  deep 
Around  the  baby  like  a  heavy  shroud. 
The  pained  little  mouth  takes  on  in  sleep 
A  trait  of  sadness  proud. 

One  day,  most  sweet  and  dear,  full  of  repose, 
A  mother's  voice  rang  o'er  this  cradle  white. 
Slowly  her  fervent  song  of  love  arose 
Into  the  dusk  of  night ; 

Of  smiles  and  hopes  it  sang  a  wondrous  lay 
In  tender  tones  as  of  a  silver  flute ; 
Through    the    dim,    quiet  rooms    it    winged    its 
way,  — 

But  now  that  voice  is  mute. 

—  Poor,  motherless,  forsaken  child,  ah  me ! 
Sleep  on  and  rest  on  thy  deserted  bed. 
At  snowy  dawn  to-morrow  thou  shalt  be 
Awaked  by  hunger  dread. 
90 


Most  beautiful  with  those  sad  eyes  ablaze.  Prophecy 

Those  serious  lips,  that  gloomy  brow  of  thine. 
Thy  stern  and  yet  unconscious,  dreamy  gaze. 
Misfortune's  certain  sign  ; 

Predestined,  thou,  for  suffering  and  sighs. 
Unknown  to  men,  noted  by  God  alone. 
Thou  shalt  live  on,  raising  thy  pensive  eyes 
Unto  the  vast  unknown  : 

Alone,  exhausted,  tired,  thou  shalt  pass  by 
The  crowd  that  fills  thee  with  untold  disdain. 
Asking  of  that  unknown  the  dreadful  why 
Of  hunger  and  of  pain. 

But  as  a  virgin  palm  from  desert  sand. 
As  a  fair  flower  from  thorny  boughs  will  rise, 
Sending  intoxicating  perfumes  bland 
Into  the  open  skies. 

So  thou,  condemned  by  fate,  severely  taught 
By  those  stern  masters  pain  and  misery, 
Shalt  let  thy  spirit  soar  on  wings  of  thought 
Into  infinity. 

A  poet  thou  shalt  be  !     As  in  the  night. 
The  silent  night,  a  mighty  fire  doth  shine. 
Shall  rise  from  out  thy  mind  the  splendid  light. 
The  flame  of  thought  divine  ; 

91 


Prophecy     For  if  the  smile  of  beauty  flee  from  thee. 

All  things  at  last  to  earth  must  pay  their  fines. 
Genius  alone  in  mournful  majesty 

Through  storm  and  darkness  shines. 

A  poet  thou  shalt  be  —  with  magic  strain 
Upon  thy  virile  golden  harp  supreme 
The  tearful  nights  thou  shalt  evoke  again. 
Thy  childhood's  far-off  dream. 

And  the  rebellious  pangs,  the  powerless 
Days  of  thy  youth,  the  wretchedness,  the  strife. 
The  longing  for  thy  mother's  voice,  the  stress 
That  slowly  wears  thy  life  ; 

And  that  proud  sobbing,  and  that  woful  moan 
As,  breaking  on  the  shore,  the  wailing  waves, 
A  nation's  sighs  of  anguish,  yea  —  the  groan 
Of  myriad  weeping  slaves. 

Thee  poet  of  distress  and  misery. 
Of  war  with  fate,  fought  in  the  dark,  defeat 
And  martyrdom  and  uncrowned  victory. 
The  earth  will  loudly  greet  ! 

A  world  of  silent  suffering  shall  pass  by. 
Of  ragged  weary  men  unending  throngs. 
Of  a  supreme  revolt  the  daring  cry 
Shall  all  ring  in  thy  songs  : 
92 


For  thee  who,  fighting  bravely,  dost  not  swerve     Prophecy 
But  seal' St  the  heights  out  of  life's  black  abyss. 
Glory,  enamoured  of  thee,  v?ill  reserve 
Her  warm,  immortal  kiss. 


MAKE   ROOM 

MAKE   room  !  —  From  busy  ploughshares, 
from  the  infernal  glow 
Of   horrible    black    forges,  from  tortuous    mines 
below. 

From  furnaces  ablaze. 
From  mills  that  with   the   noises  of  wheels  and 

hammers  ring 
I  rise,  a  free  plebeian  —  I  rise  and  joyous  sing 
To  work  a  hymn  of  praise. 


Make  room  !  —  From  azure  waters  where  happy 

halcyons  soar. 
From  whispering  myrtle-thickets  upon  the  wooded 
shore. 

Where  streams  o'er  pebbles  run. 
From  nests  and  hiding-places  in  furrows  and  in 

bowers 
I  rise,  a  daring  peasant,  and  sing,  adorned  with 
flowers, 

A  psean  to  the  sun, 
93 


Make  Who  stays  die  foaming  torrent  that  rushes  madly 

^''^^  by  ? 

And  who  can  stay  the  skylark,  lost  in  the  rosy  sky. 

The  arrow,  when  once  fled  ? 
A  gloomy  owl,  a  skylark,  a  fleeting  swallow  I ; 
I  am  the  rushing  river,  I  as  an  arrow  fly 
That  into  space  has  sped  ! 


Art,  'tis  for  thee  I  'm  fighting  :  —  future,  I  wait 

for  thee. 
My  feelings  and  affections,  the  fire  that  glows  in 

me 

And  heart  and  mind  devours. 
Clad  in  their  jewelled  vesture  of  verses,  flowing 

free. 
To  earth  and  heaven  I  fling  them,  a  shining  sheaf 

to  be 

Of  lightnings  and  of  flowers  I 


94 


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